Unquiet Desperation
May 18, 2021, 03:51:03 AM *
Welcome, Guest. Please login or register.

Login with username, password and session length
Sorry, you must be logged in to use the shoutbox!
News: Post in our Creative Philosophy board... if you can.
 
   Home   Help Login Register  
Pages: 1 ... 8 9 [10]
 91 
 on: April 01, 2012, 08:14:42 AM 
Started by Pater - Last post by Raven
He named his child HELL , good for that rich soccar player douche bag

 92 
 on: April 01, 2012, 08:10:12 AM 
Started by MyLittleMonkey - Last post by Raven
I dont think you were breaking the lines up in the right places but overall that was a great poem/story

 93 
 on: March 29, 2012, 04:42:22 PM 
Started by The Bolshevik Dandy - Last post by The Bolshevik Dandy
But where?

 94 
 on: March 24, 2012, 03:01:22 AM 
Started by Pater - Last post by Pater
Just a child, you see,
when windows iced over
with those whorls and florals
like see-through wallpaper.
I sat there on an old stool
red plastic cover and frayed legs,
older than me, older than me still,
and I peered over the ledge;
waiting for the sound of clicking
going round on cobbles.
Metal-rimmed wheels and clopping
fading in not out in the icicle night.

Whiteish he was, more grey at the snow.
Black patches over his eyes
yet he knew I was there;
pricked up his ears as he turned
and looked at me in the warmth
he could not share. Whinnied
and shook his head as if telling me off,
stay out of the cold young man.
Because he knew these things.

Then the coalman left
as black as the night.
And my friend left too,
clip-clopping and fading out.
I would wonder if he lay down later,
slept like me, as long as me,
in a stable at the back of someone's big house.
I hoped he did; I gave him a Polo mint once.

by Pater

 95 
 on: March 20, 2012, 04:10:24 AM 
Started by Pater - Last post by Pater
The ground is my marker,
somewhere I never touch
until the night rewinds its day;
I am higher as the darkness waits,
sat up here behind my paper blinds
reading the newsprint,
the obituary page; survivor's guilt
and those kinds of things.

Nothing comes and nothing goes
in these four walls; only time.

Just around the corner
I imagine old folk
sipping tea, dusting themselves down,
then the plastic flowers by the grate.
With their fear of man matched only by
the fading of their light,
that obligatory date with death closer still;
such a waste of things.

Nothing numbs and nothing knows
in these four walls; only time.

At night I will order
myself out, an off-licence
for my cider and my vodka;
down the piss-stained stairs and away
past the dim glow behind window blinds.
The silhouettes of others
a comfort to my own below these street lamps.
When I can face things.

Drinking numbs until tomorrow
in these four walls; one more time.

 96 
 on: March 14, 2012, 03:45:45 PM 
Started by MyLittleMonkey - Last post by MyLittleMonkey

you know
   
the sad truth
of it all

is that in the end

the only thing
we

ever

experience

is
ourselves


 97 
 on: March 14, 2012, 03:37:22 PM 
Started by MyLittleMonkey - Last post by MyLittleMonkey




Gamblers loose so they can chase
to get out all this rigmarole they’re unfit for.
the non chaotic end of this something, boredom kills
more than the war on terror
the gambler seeks quick thrills and
loosing drives the gambler mad
whilst winning makes the gambler a genius.
The gambler is both these things
but in unequal proportions
although the gambler is a champion yarn spinner
when it comes to covering tracks
they are better than Aboriginals
make Gamblers secret agents and send them somewhere broke
chasing money because the gambler
can find coins in fountains that aren't for wishes
they would make great double agents
and the gambler simply wants something worthwhile to do or
the odd big win is enough to do the gambler years and
they are amazing at finding other peoples resources
and talking those people with resources into helping them with their resources.
the gamblers main strength as a would be double agent
would be the ability to squirm out of hairy situations
until that’s no longer possible and ggghhhhhkkkkkk
although you must be careful of the gambler as a genius for
this is a mighty human being
with the wind at the back and the road meeting the feet
gamblers are generous and like to show it off
eat well do nice things
the gambler realises quickly about nice things and
the gambler looses again
and is in it again chasing the life out of chaos and the head of the genius
the gambler is a vivid storyteller
especially when it comes to hard luck
because all gamblers know there is luck and that luck is
more glorious than knowledge and second only to humour
for the gambler must laugh at himself
the once great genius
who becomes a lost lonely donkey in a run down winter beach town
running through houses and banks and bookies after bookies
casinos race tracks days in good suits but
most days the arse worn outa the drawers





 98 
 on: March 08, 2012, 02:46:27 AM 
Started by Pater - Last post by Pater
Sounds like good old Pablo

Ah, Picasso, you mean. He was Spanish wasn't he. And a veritable Lothario.

 99 
 on: March 08, 2012, 01:43:23 AM 
Started by Pater - Last post by Pater
good read dr pater ... I am listening to you though here and i care about poetry

Did you know that David Beckham named a child of his after the place you hail from?
It was conceived there. Good, eh?

 100 
 on: March 08, 2012, 01:39:30 AM 
Started by Pater - Last post by Pater
I swear to god if you tell me you get published all the time with your horrible poetry im going to kill myself

I get published all the time.

Pages: 1 ... 8 9 [10]
Powered by MySQL Powered by PHP Powered by SMF 1.1.16 | SMF © 2011, Simple Machines Valid XHTML 1.0! Valid CSS!