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Old 12-07-2012, 02:59 PM View Post #1 (Link) Hungry for Hippo?
hippo (Offline)
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(this is thread-box poem.)

(write something, anything.)

(then play with it.)

(there is no critiquing.)

(there is only poetry.)
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Old 12-08-2012, 01:28 AM View Post #2 (Link)
Isis (Offline)
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Flying into New York at night reveals a city stretched out, the bridges turned into languid rivers,
lights rising from behind billboards and the reeds of the meadowlands, a city that beckons
get lost in me, if you feel this is familiar you could not be more wrong,
the black ribbon of the Hudson indistinguishable from the maw of the Sound.
I feel the river move below me as we bank low and the liquid glow
from the main island fades and headlights prick the night in its back.
No one could own a better horse than the river, wide as a city
where the police still ride horses, no horse could move me faster
than current and swell. The headlights get bigger, and now I see the green cast
of a porch light on a lawn, the suburbs growing below me forever
and swelling faster and grayer than the river in flood.

This must be how the NASA tech felt when she first looked
at the nodes and spatter across the black marble earth
as the satellite images stitched themselves together across the dark pool
of her monitor. The closer the zoom, the more light: first the cities splayed out
like a highway map, and then gas fires, the aurora, moonlight reflected by ice,
tankers out to sea. Could she see the blinking bouys that mark the vein
of the Hudson for those few ships brave enough to angle beneath the bridges,
which once warned me in a fog that I had strayed too far from the far shore?
Or perhaps she squints in, beyond the galaxies of light on the mainlands
and into the dark bands of nothing like the thick dust splatter
that blocks our view into the center of our galaxy,
not that most of us can see it on our nightly wanderings
and who could be surprised when our marble
is never truly dark - all the ice and sand and dead grass to send the moonlight back.
But she finds the dark pockets, or one of them, a hollow somewhere
between mountains, and knows at least one porch light is attracting fat moths,
and for a second can see the moon hitting the moth's wings
until the fly into the light, and with it are gone.
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Old 12-08-2012, 05:04 PM View Post #3 (Link)
Ares (Offline)
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A mass of tangling syrupy spider webs encroached our hollow wireframes
translucent membrane minutes peek through
swallow seconds and spit out the past
grayscale rotten fungus skin throbbing
with the ferocity of a stillborn heart
aureoles and ventricles house the cadavers
blood seeping through their regret marrow
streams and lakes and pools of memories
ripple like earthquakes on whisper stained air
and die down with the calm
of the hour limb
of this shadow clock.
						Last edited by Ares; 12-08-2012 at 05:15 PM.
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Old 12-09-2012, 08:27 AM View Post #4 (Link) This post is a reply - don't critique it
hippo (Offline)
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I liked the internet. Kept obligations and intensity clean of each other. "You", this infinite prospect of her, was always divorced from any concept other than conceptuality itself which allowed for infinite foreplay with no room left for failure. It also allowed me to retreat further, to find what would happen if my body left and all that remained was a mind, but the mind still remembered the body in the darker stills of night, and the monitors glare although blurred in the deliriously teared morning eyed madness of near daybreak never did obscure the bodies crying, nor the emotional child within still throwing a temper tantrum because it wanted to be physically held by someone capable of feeling it's weakness... it's very being...
and so I acted out. The internet became a good excuse for violent pornography, and not just the visual download of representative me's tangled anger-mothered-martyrdom ruthlessly pounding themselves aggrivated anxious sudden removal from any fascade of separation fuck me bloody rip my vulva yes-spasm, but a more mercurial more intoxicating more socially invigorating display of urgent masquerade for intellectual affection;

Unfortunately, I never could get naked enough.
						Last edited by hippo; 12-15-2012 at 02:07 AM.
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Old 12-09-2012, 09:55 AM View Post #5 (Link) This post is a reply - don't critique it
hippo (Offline)
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I'm replying to a critique? No no no, there is no difference. You could not possibly prove a difference and I can show you this by deconstructing any sentence you have into a series of one word phrases at which point it will become impossible to not






There are small gods of fingerstained bus windows and nose bleed crust still resting on the crest of nostril that no one sacrifices virgins to or starves themselves chanting under waterfalls for but they go on doing their duty
stitching the tiny seams that unweave the burning meaning.
						Last edited by hippo; 12-15-2012 at 02:08 AM.
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Old 12-09-2012, 12:37 PM View Post #6 (Link)
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scars heal, but when you run your fingers over them, feel the ridges and bumps, memories come rushing back and

suddenly you're fourteen again, and desperate to please, so you go on your knees and--

then you're back in the present,

still on your knees, begging to forget. but scars heal, keeping that poison in until you think it'll eat you alive. so you bleed them out every now and then, wondering who you were when your skin was whole.
Most of my poetry is smut these days.
Epic narcoleptic.
I like giving crits
VM me if you want one
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Old 12-09-2012, 02:45 PM View Post #7 (Link) Teacher
Isis (Offline)
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I can help you do what you do better, so well that you get sewn up
and your fingers can only rap the keys in the same pattern

and the tick of the clock in your neighbors place is louder than a fly
and your lower back is a crowbar and the weeks are iterations not passing ships

and no metaphor you can concoct where the same thing is a different thing
can brew you out of your corner of the kingdom of the subjunctive

where if scars are seams then the face of the earth has been stitched together
with every cycle of freeze thaw, if you drink a mug of coffee it turns to blood.

I hold the needle, the pipette, the scalpel, glass so fine it could pry out your eye.
Eventually I do pry one out so you can only see the desk

and not the window, past which the trees heave in the wind and your neighbor
smokes and every once and a while looks through to your greenglass lamp

like it was a beacon across a cold bay. I cannot help you leave the chair.
You must do this for yourself. You have to feel a rumble beyond the web

of words you've been sewing together and cutting and fixing all night
and stretch out your back, perhaps feeling the pit in your stomach for the first time
and the desire for rice so hot it sears the roof of your mouth;
or perhaps you hear the crack of a raven and your mind jumps to a tree
exploding into ravens with the weight of the cold and now you can't see anything
but ravens swaggering or flying like fat cargo ships; or maybe its the yelp
of your neighbor when he puts his cig out by accident on his hand
and even though you don't smoke you go out to join him.
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Old 12-09-2012, 03:10 PM View Post #8 (Link)
Ares (Offline)
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You read this like a flapping fish on solid ground
I write this like a bird underwater

My feather weighted words
in the aqueous realm

Your fins struggle
to absorb some water

We together create this perpetually compacting box
and trap ourselves in
the borders within
Hands are pistons on this tabletop
and words are but waves
of empty monosyllabic chatter
My hands aztec breaths on this plastic
keyboard city skycraper spacebars
constantly compressed
into this elastic reality
our cauldron of thoughts.
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Old 12-10-2012, 02:10 AM View Post #9 (Link)
hippo (Offline)
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It's a comfortable silence
in a quiet room.

Your friends are playing Hallelujah.

She puts her hand on your back to remind you she's still right here,
but mourning
feels more constant
than learning to feel her hand
for what it is

probably more momentary than your mourning
which is fool proof
and snug
in your dark daydream.

You've walked this floor before.

Another picks up the guitar, plays it in C
unlike Jeff Buckley who played it up high
and when you play it like that, up high, and as fast
as I'm about to
it's like a Chili Peppers song
he explains
and then pounds
out the chords
and suddenly
the song is happy
and people are stomping
and their pain has turned into
some sort of celebration.


You make a promise
to give up your safe mourning
for a more public display.
you imagine them singing along
and maybe even asking for that hand
with your own
placing it on the small of your back
and thanking her
for being there

next time.
						Last edited by hippo; 12-10-2012 at 02:20 AM.
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Old 12-13-2012, 03:30 AM View Post #10 (Link)
Isis (Offline)
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I know you and I live alone, my bed an open wound. Once I sat shotgun in the dark and listened to Hallelujah until something in me simmered and became breath on the windshield, like one of those forest fires that goes unnoticed beneath the thick carpet of needles. The cold was a thick carpet and when I rolled down the windows whatever had lit in me disappeared into the woods at the top of the hill, the big exhale of melting snow. Now I sink into my quiet home the way I once did into your bucket seats. I've written this poem before. Every night I eat strange bulbs and cuts off the same plate, the top in a stack of three; a month ago the fourth lept free of the dishtowel into pieces. The light rather than your foot wakes me and I can stretch till my limbs won't go further and the unrumpled sheets are like the rising river. In my favorite picture you look like a huge George Harrison, but the eye is soon drawn past you, blurry and pasted on, and to the sharp tufts of purple and white that grew by the shore of the lake. It was November and the sunset made anything alive look purple; the trees, the reeds, everything waxy and royal for a moment. You had somehow worn a cravat to match so that through the flat armor of your coat that made you shape rather than man and made me maker rather than woman, you became the reeds: to burn in the next wildfire, and in spring resprout as someone who would not spend all night listening to music below a deserted cell tower. But after a minute of Jeff Buckley's rising tide filling my place I am back there again, the shifter and everything else between us.
						Last edited by Isis; 12-13-2012 at 06:07 AM.
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