Unquiet Desperation
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Author Topic: Poetry on a Bar Nap  (Read 7664 times)
Indigoblue
Sir Isaac Newton
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« on: November 19, 2008, 12:35:45 AM »

Ok here's the idea.  This started with me and my friend KK getting drunk together and proposing topics for short poems, written on the spot and shared immediately afterwards.  It goes like this:  I propose a topic, and we all write about it.  Post your poem as a reply.  Quick and dirty, don't take ages agonizing over it.  You can revise afterwards and repost in the carnival or the crucible depending on how serious you feel about it.

Two days before the next topic is posted.  Once the next topic is posted, you have to write about that one.  No going back to earlier topics or it gets too confusing.

Alrighty then.

First topic is one that I wrote about, posted in the Crucible and got slammed for, lol.   Have fun, kiddies:

Holes in your argument
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Ploe
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« Reply #1 on: November 19, 2008, 12:57:59 AM »

My attempt. You may slam back.  Grin

Twist and wrench the vernacular of the other,
volume not logic - the factor in this fight,
points not quite,
just thought,
just made,
opinion not fact,
thrown only to hurt,
lip is bitten,
ignored.
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Will
Henry David Thoreau
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Everything is Irrelative.


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« Reply #2 on: November 25, 2008, 01:49:26 AM »

i didn't say that...
you're lying
yea well?
yea...well?

oh fuck off


(pardon the banality)
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I think, therefore I'm lost.
Aristotle Shostakovich
Arthur Miller
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« Reply #3 on: November 25, 2008, 07:56:18 PM »

kindred heart' or open mouthed'
shots of fantacy sing out-loud'
oak tree; palm tree; hath put us under;
small talk; pitch folk;

days of thunder!!
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my legs just don't work on monday's
pease-smith
Stanley Kubrick
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« Reply #4 on: November 30, 2008, 08:55:50 AM »

It's like a murder victim with the eyes missing.
With arms tied behind it's back,
Relapse into black,
Sweet sweet unglorious fucking thing.
« Last Edit: November 30, 2008, 08:59:49 AM by pease-smith » Logged
ahazura
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« Reply #5 on: December 13, 2008, 02:40:07 AM »

all wet standing there in your
own words
the first clue that there's holes
in all you loudly exclaim
weather report called for rain
your points fell through the
gaping circles of your well formed mouth
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Mr. Goldberg
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« Reply #6 on: December 13, 2008, 08:32:16 AM »

Holes are great
because your bullets
just fly straight through
hitting nothing.
Fired from a rusted rifle
with no argument of its own.
You're entitled to your own backfire.
Your own recoil sends you reeling.
It's the Disney cartoon:
Elmer Fudd missing Bugsy
Every single time
with both barrels
and just a charred face.
to show for it.
...wa-wa-oooooooo
My hole is beautifully black now.
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Aristotle Shostakovich
Arthur Miller
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« Reply #7 on: December 14, 2008, 01:19:21 PM »

there was a fat fucker from Lundy,
who would always put his cock up the cundy,
his wife said; Jack,
if you don't stop that,
you'll be out of this house by Monday......
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my legs just don't work on monday's
Indigoblue
Sir Isaac Newton
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« Reply #8 on: December 19, 2008, 07:38:00 PM »

Oooh I forgot about this and then you guys all posted and yay!  It's still happening!

OK OK so you had waay more than two days, let's pick a new topic.

NEW TOPIC/STARTER IS: 

lost my way


My contribution:

I lost my way before I ever knew I had one
waving fingers in the dark instead of light
I lost my way before I ever knew I had one
spent my days
wandering
wondering
walking round myself in circles
searching for a hidden light

pure
blind
luck
stumbling across you



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Will
Henry David Thoreau
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Everything is Irrelative.


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« Reply #9 on: January 26, 2009, 09:18:03 PM »

i drink my green concoction
of a sugar cube drip

my inner ear
burns chaos into 
my traveling mind
and
i fall numerous times

dizzy
i forget from where I came
and why I was coming





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I think, therefore I'm lost.
Null
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Sir Isaac Newton
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« Reply #10 on: January 31, 2009, 03:40:50 AM »

Starved. Alone. Personal frontier.
Bordered in dark.
Eighties assumed.
Rooms with Uncle.
Car. Road. Up back.
Stimulated, all Earnshaw.
Walk out, taught, thin.
Bus seen, my mind - lubed.
Sweet bullet. Wrapped in paper...
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the most painful but wonderful thing about literature is discovering someone else has managed to distill something better than you ever could.
michaelaaron
Virginia Woolf
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« Reply #11 on: February 09, 2009, 07:26:27 PM »

Lost my way once
in the wayward backroads
of Texas; full as the starry
nights are in the desert,
can't even look up without
finding home.
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