Would You Suggest Writing as a Career? (1 Viewer)

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at least, we hope it's a mix up

our two year old gets the first
letters of Mum and Dad mixed.

hence, she calls her Dad "Mad"
and her Mum "Dum."


:)
 
Dirge

As we creep along the shores of our fragile minds
The tanks roll across the land to spread war like a cancer
Warmongers
If death is your finest friend, why do you meet so rarely?
 
my daughter and me

you wont get a chance
to squawk
the
dress
code
for the affair has
been amended
FUCK ME DADDY
LYNCH MY QUIM
POUND
GRIND
CHOMP
POUND
POUND
take a shit
captain courageous
then you'll
clock in
my
card
for a
pearl necklace
talk about
cummings
 
Did I chop off my zombie head ?

My neighbours thought I would be dead
Called the cops
They searched my flat
Because the lights were on in my bathroom
Could have had some turtles there
I love my neighbours because they care
Mrs. Winkelmann thought I died
She couldn't stand another night
After three months she had to act
I am dead and that's a fact
Post Toxic is a funny name
Because you know what's in the game?
I'm the first corpse that doesn't stink
 
i'm living

i'm living

im busy living
in the smallest town
there ain't nothing
to fix my mind.
it all cost
twice as much,
i only get a fourth
out of the high.

i was ready to
get married once,
but the time has
passed me by.
now i work all day
i only get to sleep
right before
i die

i been living off
the strangest things
"a pack of smokes
and i'll be fine"
and a beer
or six
and if i got
the time
i'll stay for nine


i saw a picture
that my father took,
he had a face
looked just like mine,
but that was
long ago,
it got oh so
much harsher
with the time

i've been living
in the magazines,
you know the ones
for prying eyes,
i read them outside
in feilds
underneath the light
of fireflies.

well i been waiting
for a funeral,
you know the kind
that don't arrive,
but i'll just bide
my time,
no death ain't
the type of sleep
i wanna try.
 
Darkness is embracing us all - walking a tunnel with no light at the end - blinders on our eyes - it comes as no surprise - in this world full of shit.

yagelazy, don't drown before you suffocate. Despair can be a driving force.

" Where does the white man stand?
Where does the black man stand?
Where do we all fucking stand?
Knee deep in the shit!!!!!!!! "


( taken from Napalm Death )
 
this is a poem i wrote my girlfriend for her b day

PUSSY GLUE
A BIRTH DAY POEM

Heather, I have been with you for so long
That the smell of your pussy
Seems like the only reasonable thing
out there
and now I
am stuck to that smell
that can only be described being
as crazed as your laughter
or your eyes
wich are as big and raunchy as your nipples
or as ridiculous as our fights
and we fight more that most people
but I know now that
it is better to eat food that is so spicy
that I can barely handle it
that makes you cry in public
than to eat food that tastes normal
but ends up leaving you bored
what I am saying
is that most girls are like all you can eat
Chinese food
And your like getting spicing wings at the bar
 
A BIRTH DAY POEM
wich are as big and raunchy as your nipples
And your like getting spicing wings at the bar
Hi,
Birthday is one word. "Wich" is spelled "which". Also, "your" (last line), should be "you're". Plus there were a few more misspelled or wrong words (Spicing is an example)

Bill
 
i have been writing for some time now, poetry and prose and general rants about space and time and miller high life. i was writing long before i knew who bukowski was, but after my first time reading him, something snapped. there are similarities in our life (no i'm no clone or anything, just poor and drunk) which is why some poeple have said they find my poems somewhat like his.
i don't think so.
i could never turn simplicty into beauty like he does.
i have been published in the first edition of uncommon sense in new orleans. thats all. i'd like to get some more stuff out there


police station, disabled drug dealer, baby k, then me

the old house where i
used to live. where so
many people
fucked.
on the couches, every
bed, counters, tables,
(pool and dining room)
bathtubs, front porch,
against the walls.
where everyone drank
every day.

and, on that note,
when you live the
miller high life
you will inevitably
puke on someone
you love.

and she'll make you
sleep on the couch
where so many people
fucked.
yelling that in the
morning, your gone,
mother fucker.

and in the morning
she'll forgive you.
after cleaning her
hair, the bed, and
the wall. and you
make love on that
couch
where so many people
fucked
 
it was published on facebook.
Wow, how did you manage that? I hear it's tough to get your work onto facebook.

The University of Iowa Writer's Workshop recently held a symposium discussing just that matter. It was called, "How the hell can we get our work onto facebook?!" So obviously they have been frustrated by the stringent standards that facebook adheres to.

So congratulations on that. Don't forget to put it on your resume.
 
i have been writing for some time now, poetry and prose and general rants about space and time and miller high life.

many here have written, high and on life

i was writing long before i knew who bukowski was, but after my first time reading him, something snapped. There are similarities in our life (no i'm no clone or anything, just poor and drunk) which is why some poeple have said they find my poems somewhat like his.
I don't think so.

frozen tree branches snap, as do minds

i could never turn simplicty into beauty like he does. I have been published in the first edition of uncommon sense in new orleans. Thats all. I'd like to get some more stuff out there

keep your eyes on the road, your hands upon the wheel
 
You're right. Its glory is self-evident. Of course facebook published it. I wonder how many copies it sold?
 
This is for mjp...

Poet, Don't Do It!

Write some stuff that makes no sense-
Poet, don't do it!
Say some things you thought you meant-
Poet, don't do it!
Dream about when you'll arrive
And know that then you'll be alive
To tell your truth, and lie and lie-
Poet, don't do it!

Make the time to find the rhyme-
Poet, don't do it!
Wish and hope for one fine line-
Poet, don't do it!
Choose your words and then lament
For letters are like money spent
And you and God can't pay the rent-
Poet, don't do it!

Poetry is suicide-
Poet, don't do it!
The choice of fools who think they're wise-
Poet, don't do it!
You'll reach the dream that rests on high
And feel that you can really fly
But all you'll do is hang and die-
Poet, Don't Do It!

:)
 
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penciltypewritercomputer

i try to think back before the Internet (before i knew about it anyway)

how i would have shit my pants to find actual copies of his typed poems

to have all this information at my finger tips

but shit...i bet it would have meant less

back then it was all whispered stories & legend

i remember meeting an old gal in Santa Cruz

she said she slept with him years ago

& i tried not to grill her about details (about the man not the penis)

she wasn't very impressed but we were drunk at 4am & the money had run out

then i remember checking Barfly out at the local library

& realizing he had drawn a cartoon on the title page

(i cut it out & mounted it on an x-ray of a broken leg)

but now all the butterflies are out of the closet

there is nothing that can't be seen, heard or found

i think i liked it better the other way

but then again...

it just means that it's easier to get by

any silly ass hero worship

still left over from when i actually cared about things

--

& oh yea...i do tend to write in effected poesy if only cause my brain simply prefers clipped simple lines instead of that long winded garbage that i use when i have to actually talk to people.
 
Say hello to the rich
tapestry of oblivion


I don't write very many poems
and those that I do
aren't very good.

I don't write very many poems
that work, although
I've been at it longer
than I care to mention.

When your desire
outstrips your capability
you are fucked.
 
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#500

This seems like a good time to close this up (not because of your post theonlygoodpoetisa, just coincidence).

I do apologize for the capricious whimishness of the decision, but I am capricious and whimish. There are lots of places on the internets that are waiting for your poetry. Where the people are ready to critique and workshop your gems until you write just like them! Seek out one of those friendly spots and do your deed there.

- ed.
 
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