The Workshop

online, teething


we used to talk

and i used to hear
dripping out of your white words

your voice
clear like milk

and i like a baby
biting the flesh off your breast

the flesh of my gums
 
Last edited:
Kasaysayan

I didn't realize how thin-skinned I was until
I felt my chest against your red
onion-smelling hoodie as we hugged

in front of the Caltex next to FCM
long since our last meeting -- and as a jeep
took me norte beyond the end of Commonwealth

into the mouth of La Naval and La Mesa Dam,
my dust-stung eyes burst not into tears
but capillaries.
 
Last edited:
oh this was a bitch female dog to post. also, of the current string of poetry that i'm posting, this is by far my favorite. font made small because otherwise the alignments wouldn't fit.

lining up, against the wall,


i can't work when i'm alone. i just
...................................can't. i'm the type of person who'd call an escort service just for the companionship.
..............................................................................................just for the companionship,
..........................................i'm the type of person who'd call an escort service.
.............................i'd close my eyes at whatever it is she'd do to me. she'd still do it, i'd just
.................................close my eyes. i wonder if your eyes are open, or if you're staring into me
like that. i can't work when i'm alone
.....................................and nothing's lining up.
 
Last edited:
And now some NaPM stuff. Not all, because some pieces have so much white space I would have a stroke trying to post them here.

National Poetry Month,


An event much like the Holy Roman Empire:
Surely all Nations are not One,
And how could we call these Awkward Structures
Poetry, if not by Arrogance?

While as for "Month", well,
Eliot's got a Structure for that.


3000 in Technicolor


Well in truth I always thought I was a far better fit
for the life of an actor rather than for the life
of a poet or a singer or a rapper or some other
artist using exclusively words, but then
color pictures entered the market
and when I had my picture
taken, no one, not even
the taker, came
to watch.
 
Last edited:
look! more Adventure Time!

3000 in Technicolor (Hard Meat Worry)
see, i don't think anyone else
remembers this, not the way
i do, not the way
i used to jive
before i knew
what jive
or stank
or funk
or cultural appropriation
even was, not the way
i learned about jazz
and blues
through ice
and blueberries
and smooth smooth clarinet
and the quirky way she strung
her violin.
............they say true love
never ages, only the actors age,
the stage creaks, the themes grow
offensive, and the verse imprisons
until the story's depth is undercut
by a comic hit of clarity -- but of course
you don't really care about all that,
huntress wizard,
the way you sleep like a log
(literally) every night, the way your eyes
always face forward, the way you leave everyone behind
(like me) until your story's depth is undercut
by you dying of old age
alone and divorced
from science cat.
..................what exactly do you want
from that old man of yours?
one last blinding hit of blue
to kiss your worries away?
 
Last edited:
of course i don't admit to making consistently good stuff. this is a workshop, not a showcase, after all; and even then my showcase showed more technical than emotional or even intellectual skill.

Engineer's Son


entre la nuit, la nuit et l'aurore,
entre le royaume des vivants et des morts

i
daddy would be right to exorcise
this glass-and-metal demon
if he weren't satan.

he offered me birth,
he gave me light.

i thought he would be silence
but it turned out he was foreign,
it turned out he was a heretic.
i thought she would be silence
but it turned out she was native,

one of those folk spirits
he warned me against
when he pulled me out of the darkness,
when he dragged me out of the womb.

ii
it's the middle of the night
and i'm still online.
salsa plays -- arcade fire.

i hear the neighbors complaining
in my head. chat partner says
i should go to bed.

she's very lovely, with red
hair, green eyes, white skin stretched
over french cheekbones.

iii
they're jongleurs, i tell her,
entertaining a crowd, a public
that doesn't really exist.
of course she tells me
not to imitate my father,
not to confuse
her existence
with my own.

they're hypocrites, i tell her,
having so many celebrity friends,
if you could call them friends.
of course she tells me
not to subscribe to a trend,
not to confuse
her ideas
with my own.

they're foreigners, i tell her,
making so much money
out of their own laziness
while daddy has to work
just to keep the internet going,
selling scientific devices
like analytical balances
for a meager commission --

she doesn't reply. i realize
i've talked too much,
turned her off
by turning around.
hindi ka pala diwata
kundi'y isang multo
 
Last edited:
last two for today. the periods are a pale imitation of white space, for those heathens among you who don't use the forum's default (i think) black background; and courier new is used because i write basically everything in notepad's default (i think) font, and thus all the white space ends up being constructed thus (in a real convenient way, too, since all spaces and characters have the same size; would recommend).

scripture


lamp oil comes out smooth --
passing the tube, it gets to the blood
and heals all ailments: blindness,
bad shit, you name it! even sinuses clogged
with mental matter. tastes fucking better,
too, than all the guiltless: the heartburn's the something special
keeping the bitter smell, the pungent taste, the smooth
fresh in memory. only a meager forty!


eyebags


weeks taken
toll, o beautiful
morning once a face
owned -- worn took, when once
before love, God's labor
was all around
and said:
..........let it not that i
..........only from a distance touched
..........another, long before i've touched
..........another, locked in struggle
..........loved --
...................and cracks upon the mirror,
...................tears upon the over not.
 
Blake 2


Man.
....There is no we,
....only me and you.

Word.
.....What I say
.....you won't get.

Voice.
......I don't have
......my own voice---
......you have it all.

Verse.
......You have it all.

* * *

God.
....Like I said: he exists,
....we fucking don't.

Learn.
......Now I know
......who you are:
......you're my problem.

Love.
.....All I wanted
.....was to fuck you---

Lust.
.....You lose.
 
the nightmall dream


The monolith
rises. The highway ends,
the parking lot begins. Crowds swarm
like starlings -- scrub it out, scrub it out.

Once, and not a more sustained
adverb, we used to wait. Words, we claimed,
were never enough -- we said sorry but
we couldn't connect, broke our lines in
the wrongest ways, rhymed without purpose, caressed

you run from crimes you don't remember. you can't look back:
the guards, half on foot and half on segways, track
like german dogs. instead of words they've tied together sticks, and your bombshell partner's
deserted you: she's covered the way to your car in slicks, in jelly beans.
the tires skid. as you fly away to heaven, she sucks in the sound
of the supermarket, butchers splitting wings from legs.



confession


god's wrath as lightning. midnight
hands that touch, a tongue that licks --

morning. scarlet cloth, candlestick ready to pierce, to force open
my nine mouths and burn me brighter
than the temple dedicated, defiled --

i grab my phone. i plug the headphones in. i link, i listen.
i exhale. through the open window eyes that watch: bodies on the shelf,
cameras in the distance --

cats on a cooling roof, our lips as keys.
 
Last edited:
Fountain of Cheese


I found eternal youth
in mangled drafts and lines
to be,

my works you love "mature"
and soonest out of style
like me.
 
Songs


Lover.
I'll dance in the shower,
I know you bugged my room.

Beloved.
I know I've got the blood of birds,
dad was a bird and mom was a bird. They flew
out of the countryside and into the city,
they saw the spires in silhouette. I'll fly away too.
Someday I'll see the sea, someday I'll see mountains,
but tonight I'll sing, my lips and ears
carried by the wind.

Lover.
My room's got a perfect view
of the mall: in silhouette,
the lights distant, twinkling like stars.

Beloved.
When I'm grown, I'll scare away the cats.
I'll make like an Icarus and wax
the hairs off my skin. I'll launch myself
out of my bedroom window, shadow the hot tin roof.
Make sure you get my good side.

Lover.
They raped mountains
for that mall, they filled in the sea...

Alright, I'll dance, I'll tap my foot.
 
Last edited:
Dream of an Onscreen Crush


I. Getting There
I'll learn soon enough.
I'm a rabbit, stuck
between the spokes of a steering wheel. The helmsman sometimes feels me, doesn't care.
Speed is set to Onscreen Crush. I've passed east many times, the direction I call home,
never to stop where I wanted to stop, the city's silhouette
always growing.

II. Scenes in the City
A blue dog in the corner. In his hand, a photograph:
his hand all bent into a face. His coat opens --
out fly playing cards (two of diamonds), cash
(the Hanged Man, the World). He weeps.

A comedy on the intersection. A husband gives away his wife
to someone in a wheelchair. Wheels and woman kiss.
A light shines from above: heaven, the husband's soul, a haunting call to sacrifice.

A voice in the wilderness, her song in perfect harmony with mine.
What is it you want? What is it you need?

III. Rapture and the Morning After
Orange circles swirl around me.
Someone's lying behind, someone's scratching my back, someone's eating my shoulder,
someone's stuffing my ass. All while the clock melts, the calendar screams in panic.
Someday I'll be cut down, someday I'll be awakened, someday I'll meet the Evangelists,
someday I scream, sweating in a summer's 10 AM,
That's all, folks!
 
Although a Shotgun Was Involved


Me, I'm a knowledgeable sinner. I'd refer you,
like the pretentious fool I am, to that Talking Heads song.
My less pretentious friends, who are far more knowledgeable,
they don't like Talking Heads as much, although the bands they love,
who are far more knowledgeable, refer to them as influences,
even as favorites. But I apologize.

The Romans have Aeneas, the Greeks have Heracles.
With Virtue and Piety, Fortune is swept away,
and Pleasure is only a state of Fortune. Whereas Madness
may also translate to Theoria, considering the hero is a god.
There's a saying in Greek: the Kingdom of Heaven is among you,

the Kingdom of Heaven is within you. Stripping away the trappings of sin
leaves me a kernel passed along with the feces, I admit,
but a poem's not a verse. I refer you to words from the Holy Book:
Heaven is on clouds, Heaven has pearly gates,
Heaven's a gated community -- I realize I haven't been as in touch with God
as in my childhood. Let the little children come to me...

But I apologize. All the dead live in the love of God,
with Christ having married Heaven and Hell.
Thus I feel guilty, his love burns so viciously,
the hyssop is a scourge and we drown in snow.
The Pleasure's up to us, as Virtue subdues Fortune.
 
Drugs / Clay



Wrestling with Plato. Another white pill
and the night seems to shine --

night posts, more orange than sunshine,
in these end of times. Wrestling with Plato --

the suburbs choke because it is too dangerous to roam
these streets at night, the night posts are empty

and there are more-than-robbers about. I miss the city
where there are witnesses, I miss the country

where there is happiness -- another white pill.


Here in the land of the dead,
everything's familiar.
The trees are green and the lampposts are late to start.
Black writings scribbled on red walls,
endless protests. The huts are filled with students again:

girls and boys, their faces young, beautiful, untouchable,
their minds like clay. Even hell is illusion.
 
Last edited:
Agony


Some people struggle with death,
I struggle with reality.

The world is not real.
My country is not real.
The horror of a storm, the horror of blood --

I am in a boat in the middle of the sea.
All I have are books. No fresh water, no food.
I will not starve to death. There is land on the horizon --

It is not land I need.
I am half-fish: I have scales,
fins, gills.

I have wings. My friends are not real --
I should not call them friends. I should call them brothers, sisters:
we do not share the same blood.

We do not share the same mind. My family is not real --
my mother, my father, they did not give birth to me, they did not raise me.
I was not raised from earth. I was not raised from the dead.

My God is not real. He is just a voice in my head.
He is just a concept. He is just a symbol
of someone else's power over me --

I have no body. I have no spirit. I have no soul.
I have no power over myself: I'm not real.
I dreamed you up, your red hair and green eyes
the blood-stained earth, or jewels in the clouds.

Righteousness weighs but a trifle.
Wealth weighs nothing at all.
I am grown mad, but you have no proof
just as I have no proof of you.

There is only three of us here,
but she completes me -- there is only two.
There is me, and there is you --

no, not you,
You. The earth is wiped away by the flood,
the flood is wiped away by the city,
the city is wiped away by man,
man is wiped away by the stone,
the stone is wiped away by the steel,

the steel is shaped into a cross.
What am I to do with a cross
but hang on it, or carry it, or drive it
deep into my heart?

Reality is not truth,
and death is but a trifle compared to life.
 
Birdwatching


Beauty is

big, expressive eyes,
a smile wider than rivers,
words that contain the universe --

the purple scarf of an olive-backed sunbird,
the horned shadow of the old scops owl,
the coot coot coot of a colasisi --

me in the morning, searching for you
with binoculars and my mind's eye,
followed by your reply: a mocking

smile.

Beauty is
big, expressive eyes,
a smile wider than rivers,
words that contain the universe --

Beauty is
the purple scarf of an olive-backed sunbird,
the horned shadow of the old scops owl,
the coot coot coot of a colasisi --

Beauty is
me in the mornings, searching for you
with binoculars and my mind's eye,
followed by your reply: a mocking

smile.
 
Last edited:
From PIPS:

The Wife's Revenge


You give the gifts in this relationship,
not I. The toothbrush,
the wooden spoon, the plastic train...

Now it's my turn.
Your present lies on a bed of leaves,
cauliflower heads split wide open.

Its skin is gold
and crackling like the earth
in rainless Ethiopia.

Don't tell me you wish to keep your figure
like that starving people you so mocked.
Don't tell me the smells of the roast don't tempt you,
the fingers of steam fail to pleasure --

your nose
is not my vulva.

Everyone had a hand in it,
from the chef to the waiters to the busboy.
Even the guest whose naked body
you smothered in shit on the street,

he brushed the glaze.
You say you wouldn't eat it but
we know you like to gorge yourself.
Cock and swine, slop and mussel:

to you, they're not much different
from a man,

not least some man I fucked.
 
Nocturne


Crickets sing with their legs,
frogs sing with their breasts,
cicadas sing with their wings,
bats sing with their mouths --

lovers sing with all their parts.
 
The End of the World


God must have spilled his box of paints today,
I think, I'm fooled by the dream into believing
the end of the world is nigh: the cloudy yellow sunset
an ash plume or a mushroom cloud,
then the sky a rainbow, pastel
blues and pinks and golds
dusted with white stars,
two little silver cups
for moons, a red sun
always setting yet never hiding,
last a comet, a long cloudy stream of milk
turn suddenly vapor -- I'd woken up
only to fall asleep again.
 
Last edited:
You must log in or register to reply here.
Top Bottom
Back