|
i didnt want to know you were wrong You said, with your hand on my thigh, the sun will rise tomorrow. It is seven AM and dark and you are gone. Your indent stains my bed. The sun will rise tomorrow. Was the way you kissed me a lie too? Your indent stains my bed, still lingering like the hickey on my neck. Was the way you kissed me a lie too? Your tongue sticky like tequila, still lingering like the hickey on my neck. I didn’t know a boy could be so soft. Your tongue sticky like tequila, you said, with your hand on my thigh, I didn’t know a boy could be so soft. It is seven AM and dark and you are gone.
|
#
?
Jan 8, 2020 21:01
|
|
|
|
| # ? May 28, 2024 14:13 |
|
|
Antikythera One side Eaten by the sea, The other Cradled by sand. Eaten by the sea, Your skeleton of salt and limpet, Cradled by sand, Your soft marble skin. Your skeleton of salt and limpet: The truth of time. Your soft marble skin: The gentle lie. The truth of time One side; The gentle lie The other.
|
|
#
?
Jan 8, 2020 23:08
|
|
|
Clever Is No Match for Vicious The fox cannot Out-fight the snake She aims prayers At plans instead. Out-fight the snake? The serpent Iaughs At plans, instead Rearing, to strike. "The serpent?" laughs The dancing fox, Rearing to strike. The snake strikes first. The dancing fox, Still where she stood. The snake strikes. First Blood, and venom. Still. Where she stood, The fox cannot- Blood, and venom. She aims prayers.
|
|
#
?
Jan 8, 2020 23:26
|
|
|
You're all kicking rear end this week! 
|
|
#
?
Jan 8, 2020 23:47
|
|
|
Really enjoying these. The subjects do such a good job interacting with the form.
|
|
#
?
Jan 9, 2020 04:36
|
|
|
So I just found this thread an hour ago and thought I'd jump in since I'm from Malaysia. If it doesn't count because I didn't sign up, it's okay. A Poem to be Google Translated, Malay -> English Alamilah alam Allah Yang Hebat dan Yang Maha Mulia Bila saya sembahyang Seperti katak di bawah tempurung Yang Hebat dan Yang Maha Mulia Bandar-bandar baru menjelang langit Seperti katak di bawah tempurung Hadap ke mana tidak ku tahu Bandar-bandar baru menjelang langit Marilah, orang yang bertamadun Hadap ke mana tidak ku tahu Buta dan pekak dalam dunia indah ini Marilah, orang yang bertamadun Alamilah alam Allah Buta dan pekak dalam dunia indah ini Bila saya sembahyang -- Fun facts, to be read after: Seperti katak di bawah tempurung is an idiom, literally translated "Like a frog under a coconut shell" aka a person that's ignorant of what's going on around them. If I type Yang Hebat, dan Yang Maha Mulia, Google tells me it means The Great, and the Most High
|
|
#
?
Jan 9, 2020 06:59
|
|
|
Submissions are closed.
|
|
#
?
Jan 9, 2020 13:08
|
|
|
Sorry for the judging delay; life is doing as it does. Anyway, results: This was a hard choice because I feel like the quality level this week was very tight and overall, everyone did a good job. Thank you to everyone who gave this a shot! Your winner this week is flerp, for something simple, effective, and particularly deft at recontextualization. Your loser is cda; this isn't a bad piece, and I applaud you for trying a found pantoum, but this doesn't really flow very well and I found it a little unsatisfying. Throne's yours, flerp.
|
|
#
?
Jan 10, 2020 21:57
|
|
|
Week 8: How a Prompt is Chosen This week, I want you to write a poem in the style of Surrealism. Surrealism is a really cool movement, probably most famous for it's art, but it also has some super cool poetry! If you don't know Surrealism and haven't studied it in art history, I'll give a quick primer. It's basically a style focused on the unconscious and dreams and what they mean. They were very much influenced by Jungian and Freudian psychoanalysis and the like, and so things written in this style are generally written within a "dream logic" where things aren't following everyday, normal logic, but work like, well, dreams. They're very interested in the subconscious, how people's brain works, and how people understand and interpret the world using the hidden parts of their brain. There's a lot more to it than this short little introduction, and it is genuinely a fascinating set of history and art, so I would recommend researching a bit of it too. If you're looking for poetry, might I suggest basically anything written by James Tate. Or, better yet, you can read one of my favorite poems of his (and one of my favorites of all time), "How the Pope is Chosen". quote:How The Pope Is Chosen There's also some rumbling about people being frustrated with just being given a style or form and not having any other guiding inspiration, so the reason I gave the whole poem was also because when you sign up, you pick a line from this poem and use it as your inspiration (or you can be asked to be given a line by me/co-judge). You can use the line in any way you see fit, as long as your poem is clearly related to your line. Try to keep it one line per person. Form can be anything. Free-verse, sonnets, limerick, whatever the hell you feel like. It's the 21st century, do whatever the gently caress you feel like in poetry imo. Also, if you do prose poetry like James Tate has done, that would be super cool. Not saying you HAVE to. Just that, you know, it's really super duper cool. For length, since "How the Pope is Chosen" is 51 lines long, let's say your poem can't be over 51 lines long. (For clarity's purpose, I consider a line to have words, so a stanza break wouldn't count as one of your 51 lines). If you decide to do a prose poem, keep it under 500 words. Sign-ups close 1/20 11:59pm PST Submission close 1/22 11:59pm PST I highly recommend using this good amount of time to research a little bit about Surrealism. Judges me ??? ??? Entrants sephiRoth IRA "They drink Slurpies until one of them throws up" Saucy_Rodent “but the sky is full of them” cda "Almost always a toy is an imitation of something grown-ups use." crimea "What, we don't know, because we are not like them." Antivehicular "Once they are elected they are given a bowl of cream" Armack "The medium-sized ones are called miniature Popes" arbitraryfairy "Some of the full-bodied popes are a million times bigger than us." Anomalous Amalgam "He is then fully armed and rides through the wilderness alone" Thranguy "in search of a sheep." flerp fucked around with this message at 03:36 on Jan 15, 2020 |
|
#
?
Jan 10, 2020 22:41
|
|
|
Fuckin in. Gimme a line!
|
|
#
?
Jan 10, 2020 22:49
|
|
|
In with “but the sky is full of them”
|
|
#
?
Jan 10, 2020 23:00
|
|
|
In with the line "Almost always a toy is an imitation of something grown-ups use."
|
|
#
?
Jan 10, 2020 23:12
|
|
|
In with "What, we don't know, because we are not like them."
|
|
#
?
Jan 10, 2020 23:26
|
|
|
In, line plz
|
|
#
?
Jan 10, 2020 23:34
|
|
|
sephiRoth IRA posted:Fuckin in. Gimme a line! They drink Slurpies until one of them throws up Antivehicular posted:In, line plz Once they are elected they are given a bowl of cream
|
|
#
?
Jan 10, 2020 23:35
|
|
|
In. Requesting a line.
|
|
#
?
Jan 11, 2020 11:48
|
|
|
Armack posted:In. Requesting a line. The medium-sized ones are called miniature Popes
|
|
#
?
Jan 11, 2020 18:47
|
|
|
In. Chuck me a line please.
|
|
#
?
Jan 13, 2020 06:31
|
|
|
arbitraryfairy posted:In. Chuck me a line please. Some of the full-bodied popes are a million times bigger than us.
|
|
#
?
Jan 13, 2020 08:28
|
|
|
In, line please
|
|
#
?
Jan 13, 2020 14:45
|
|
|
In, and line please.
|
|
#
?
Jan 13, 2020 16:21
|
|
|
A Nightmare in Flesh# Minor Look down at your hands and count your fingers ten eleven twenty one twenty seven thlirty eight slixteen blortynine and they’re coming out of your mouth and you try to bite them off but your teeth are fingers and the tendrils in your lungs are fingers too tearing those balloons from inside and maybe if you could get some air you would be okay again and the sky is the air so you leap up to escape the fingers but you see out of the pupils in your finger- nails that the sky is full of them.
|
|
#
?
Jan 13, 2020 19:53
|
|
|
Anomalous Amalgam posted:In, line please He is then fully armed and rides through the wilderness alone Thranguy posted:In, and line please. in search of a sheep. flerp fucked around with this message at 21:32 on Jan 13, 2020 |
|
#
?
Jan 13, 2020 21:27
|
|
|
Woolgathering There is no such thing as a sheep. Only sheep. Plural. Amorphous. Uncountable. No way to demark Where on ends and the next begins. Just fractal wool in cirrus clouds around the pasture. There is no such thing as a sheep. Wool is just well-treated cotton Bleached and blanched and coiled, Harvested from the redundant vegetable lamb. There is no such thing as a sheep. They are only seen just before nodding off, Or in books about flags without colors, Or by drunks in Tallahassee. There is no such thing as a sheep. Aristotle wrote fifty-seven different proofs of this And many of them are valid.
|
|
#
?
Jan 14, 2020 09:54
|
|
|
That's What It's For. Their children blossom for our revenge For their different holidays For our revenge. We made the shells Ourselves, grinning barefoot And lined with lead forever under. Let’s name these new colours In honour of them, their city Which bursts like Mars; Hard to admit when you’re beat, Barefoot. Mortgage salesmen and wives Know I am not clever. My family and friends Are made of uranium. Am I the sultan or Am I the only one? You come out the cockpit Looking like a twentieth century Canopy. Never knew You could do that. Dissolve History, pour into a hip flask. Keep it on my body armour. I live on a pair of tinted aviators. Take my arm take My arm take my Arm. I don’t recognise your taxi car Or your knees to the hilt Stageplay demolition. I have questions but Keep it close. I still don’t know what We were looking for. But it wasn’t You.
|
|
#
?
Jan 15, 2020 23:52
|
|
|
gently caress it I'm not doing anything with this MFA and I know just enough Lorca to be dangerous. I'm in. Give me a line.
|
|
#
?
Jan 16, 2020 06:53
|
|
|
rickiep00h posted:gently caress it I'm not doing anything with this MFA and I know just enough Lorca to be dangerous. I'm in. We think we are having a good time cutting cartoons out of the paper
|
|
#
?
Jan 16, 2020 07:02
|
|
|
90s Kid Green ooze was everywhere. Cartoon chaos spewing dreams onto the faces of me and my friends. Nickelodeon told me I should’ve been a game show contestant. Drowned my fellow kids in a hidden temple. Better than spilling your spaghetti orange guts on live TV in the Gulf or Bosnia or Kosovo… and what about the Console Wars? Were you a Nintendo or a Sega kid? Our faces were smeared with Elmer’s and mashed against TV screens, held until we stuck. When I could peel my skin off I was out on a bike until 9PM or later, no parents to drag us in before dark. The parents were all dead. I scraped piggy bank pennies for the technicolor highs at the 7-11. Your puke looked like melted Crayola when you drank too much. I can’t say if those were my salad days, my red-letter days, my golden years. Days were longer with jaws that closed on adults only. You could hear them screaming in the twilight blue of late afternoon that stretched out for eternity. My body ran on yellow summer sunbeam and Coke. First pink crushes setting fire to the butterflies dancing in the intercostal spaces of boy rib cages. Violet tongues, ice cold and wagging the dirtiest swears I could remember from my dad’s garage. Dad swore a lot with his big mouth. It was so big I watched him eat an entire family up one time. But he grew smaller and I grew longer. Lankier. It felt like my arms and legs were firehoses whipping around, out of my control. I super soaked a lot of kids most summers. We were shooting off ammunition all the time at friends and foes alike. Everyone got shot at least once a day. It was a rule. Cram your mouth full of Gushers and pull your hat down low. Kill the other guy before he got you, spraying your suburban sticky brains across the white sidewalk. Send a message on AOL if you could. All the buildings were made of those CDs. Just crack a piece off the gym and you could log in. Dial up to listen to Clarissa explain all the wisdom of bringing weapons to school. One hundred percent of my life has been filled with violence. I was born with a Nerf gun in my hand.
|
|
#
?
Jan 18, 2020 00:20
|
|
|
|
|
#
?
Jan 18, 2020 00:55
|
|
|
forgot but sign ups closed
|
|
#
?
Jan 22, 2020 07:26
|
|
|
Visiting My Parents 381 words There are too many cats in this house. There are the familiar ones, the dear dead ones, who perch on the arms of the living-room couch: Luke, all softness, free of his golf-ball heart and the clouded whorls of his lungs; Puff, in perfect dignity, without shame and without shamelessness. I want to stay with them, but there is too much house and too many cats. The house is all bathrooms and corridors, and in each are countless cats who have never existed. I find one in the toilet bowl, sun-gold tabby and white, placid and purring. She wanders to the bathmat to lie damply next to a brown tabby tom, bowling-ball round, grooming one neat white sock. In the living room, my father is feeding Puff a potato chip, laughing as his sweet old bear does her old tricks; my mother has left empty ice-cream bowls all over the floor, and the never-cats have descended on the dregs of vanilla. Luke is still on the couch, untrusting, a once-cat who remembers what was once good for him. Ice cream is only for never-cats. Out in the backyard, under the slide next to the half-tree, is Dream-of-Rex: a kitten, storybook orange, with blue eyes like marbles. Dream-of-Rex is old enough to rent a car. I sit on the swing set and wish I had time for him. There are still too many cats and too many places cats should be. In the attic, an empty dollhouse waits for full-named sister-cat Camellia Rose; there's a hallway shrine for Nermal, a plate of powdered donuts and plastic animals. The back door is always open. I walk across the lawn to the raspberry bushes, and I call to the absences: Cammy, come home, Mom misses you more than she ever missed me. Rex, come show me what you've got in your mouth, and I promise I won't be mad. Nermal, are you lost? Diddle, I forgive you. Cotton, you're the first thing I ever mourned. I call out every name I can think of -- grandparents' cats, strangers' cats, Black One and Gold One and Bootsy and Martin and Jazz -- and the only reply is the song of the ice-cream truck. The change in my pocket buys a Bomb Pop and two pints of vanilla.
|
|
#
?
Jan 22, 2020 08:29
|
|
|
Tasting notes for autistics A full bodied smile is satisfying and has deep flavours In time you too can learn to read a coffee’s face You will learn to tell which brews are fruity and which are angry with you Some people are much better at this than others We call these people sommeliers and they rule the world There are many kinds of sommeliers and most are much larger than you are You cannot be like them You should be like them A full bodied friend pairs well with cheese When you pour milk on your friends it will lower the bitter notes but they may not appreciate it It is important to learn to taste your friends People will not tell you they are barrel aged with floral notes You must figure this out yourself Look at their lips and eyebrows and shoulders That is how you know which way to prepare the beans You must not serve a full bodied conversation, it will make people sick A light bodied conversation is considered rude by at least three sources You must always prepare a medium bodied conversation And you must serve it in the right style of cup And at the right temperature You will know the taste of a medium bodied conversation When strangers clap for you at the opera A full bodied emotion has two sugars, some cream, and a face You may think this face is just a figure of speech It is not Everyone else can see this face The milk sings to them They ask the face how its day is going You do not ask the face anything But you drink it anyway
|
|
#
?
Jan 23, 2020 02:10
|
|
|
After Tate's Popes Almost always a toy is an imitation of something grown-ups use, Like a shovel, nail clippers, or misdirection. Unpacking the concept from the clamshell, One is so excited, one wants to put it online to see the reactions. One wants to be part of the timeline: here is where I was a child, selfie darkly filtered: here I am an adult, cat-eared in colors that pop. Everyone knows the disappointment of a product not as advertised, The product actually quite definitively directing you Down the mall's long central corridor to the fountain. Here the tapestry is flung up, in a wall of air, "finished" for the moment, cord cut before falling, You could throw your phone anywhere and hit a person you love. You could dial any number and get delivery. When the child first appears, every room is a delivery room. Almost always the child is an imitation of something grown-ups use.
|
|
#
?
Jan 23, 2020 02:58
|
|
|
Boat shoes seldom set sail Stalactites drip down riches from a see-saw sea; Cardboard cutouts strung up for High School theatrics. Still, it’s the only sky I remember, odd moving like that. Pale blue against matte-black. We actors got painted up like dolls. Grime encrusted rayon tunics knit by well-wishing relatives Can be found for a steal at your local thrift store. Dress up the porcelain caricature of your best self. Tell simple lies that snowball into permanent falsehoods. Let those lies permeate the everchanging tides of our fragility. Conscious reality, trapped inside one’s own thoughts Adrift on waves of shiny baubles and trinkets With only empty hands to paddle The show must go on, but… I’m afraid we’re taking on water.
|
|
#
?
Jan 23, 2020 04:07
|
|
|
subs closed
|
|
#
?
Jan 23, 2020 09:29
|
|
|
week 8 judgement there were some neat ideas this week, but a lot of you got lost in the sauce, so to speak, and it was pretty tough to decipher some of what you guys were going for. thats, of course, the danger of surrealism, but alas, i must decide winner goes to rickiep00h for having the best surreal poem. i lost the trail of this piece near the end, but the imagery and rhyhtm were spot-on and despite some of it not making sense, it was still a good ride. hm goes to antivehicular who i think had the best poem, but ducked the surrealism part of this week for, oddly, making too much sense and being too cohesive loser goes to arbritaryfairy. i like the conceit of this poem (if im understanding it correctly), but it lacks as a poem. it's just a bit too direct, with a pretty boring flow and weak images.
|
|
#
?
Jan 24, 2020 22:20
|
|
|
Congratulations rickiep00h! Interprompt: Haikus about the worst apartment/roommate/living situation you've ever been involved with
|
|
#
?
Jan 24, 2020 23:06
|
|
|
sephiRoth IRA posted:Congratulations rickiep00h! Growing Pains Friends who once kept tight, Through hurt and uncertainty, With vice, grew apart.
|
|
#
?
Jan 24, 2020 23:26
|
|
|
Re: All The Goddamn Dishes These loving dishes. Aren't mine. All I've had to eat Is your cereal.
|
|
#
?
Jan 24, 2020 23:32
|
|
|
|
| # ? May 28, 2024 14:13 |
|
|
grass coiled around hundred or so Coors Light cans just stay outside please
|
|
#
?
Jan 24, 2020 23:44
|
|