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Old 05-09-2010, 06:58 PM View Post #21 (Link)
Jack (Offline)
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Location: Bristol, England
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Homunculus

An ink marked sky choked the world outside
so he pulled the curtains, membranous felt
across the glass. He needn’t let prying eyes
feast upon the formless ribbon that hung
in the water. No one could see the vines that draped
the stained walls, red and dripping with angst.

A dough mix smouldering, raised above churning
flame. A sickly green paste layers solemn brick.
He waits for weeks, months, years, decades, as cells
become thick sponge, drenched in sour acid.
Taut skin on chalk twitches and balls of jelly roll
free in their sockets. Blinded by curiosity.

Homunculus, sweet flesh. Thick liquid pumping
through artificial canals. It moves flabby lips
and utters something on raspy breath.
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						Last edited by Jack; 05-10-2010 at 11:02 PM.
					
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Old 05-09-2010, 07:57 PM View Post #22 (Link)
Simmi (Offline)
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Lemon-licked beams of radiation
poured down onto burned, flaky
epidermis. The universal solvent
slowly evaporated from his body,
psyching his mind and torturing
his body.

Desiccated lips became cracked
and bled, as he smiled at the site
of building made of clay;
a water fountain spewing hopes of
life.

Grains of sand shifted between
his feet, he tumbled clumsily onto
the blistering matter and positive feedback
overruled.
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Old 05-10-2010, 07:38 AM View Post #23 (Link)
Spacepirate (Offline)
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Textbooks, scrawled margins,
coloured dots that cover page numbers...

and how will you find the index,
a depository of your anguish
during class, drawing all those
hanging men, gallows
up and down the sides until
unit one becomes a lesson in death,
unit two on how to cope,
cause you've reached the anger stage,
and no-one listens when you bite
off the pictures in your textbook,
chew them up in spit,
feeling bad so you
try to fix them back in place,
the jigsaw of the book
mirrors jigsawed fingers,
cracked, and fitted wrongly,
jutting out and so clumsy
as you reach out for all those pieces.

---

Word vomit ^
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Old 05-10-2010, 07:45 AM View Post #24 (Link)
Spacepirate (Offline)
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This must be the signpost
of Sunset Boulevard,
yet the bricks are so wet,
clogged with oil,
that the light splashes
so frivolous off the sidewalk,
rising and blinding
my vision, until both
sunrise and sunset look
the same.

---

I don't even know what kinda **** that was above. ^
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Old 05-10-2010, 04:01 PM View Post #25 (Link)
Jack (Offline)
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I pushed a liquid shard into foamy flesh to see if I could still feel.
You told me to wash it up afterwards, thought thick behind
cloudy eyes that stared on in wonder, kaleidoscopes searching for
meaning against a backdrop of colour. I asked if you had meant
what you said earlier. You said “Perhaps”, pupils rolling as sloppy
mercury, measuring my insides. You had told me my insides looked
fine, but now you were not so sure. What changed?
___

No no Spacey, that is word vomit ^
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Old 05-10-2010, 05:05 PM View Post #26 (Link)
Spacepirate (Offline)
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Oh Drax. You are so awesome at poetry. How dare you lie all those times in chat.

*angry face*

Carrying on from the doctor theme.

EDIT: I lied.

---

There's a tree outside this window
with the velvet drapes
covering the most of Jack's
icicles, hanging like little blades,
instruments that play the tunes,
so sweet are the notes
like candy crystals that you
can plop them in your mouth, lollipops
hanging from the tree
ringing out as you brush
your breathe, ducking and weaving
through steps,
afraid of one wall and avoiding the other,
clanging as they do so.

Your only wish is that you could
pluck them off the buds,
and lay them on your knees,
drumming each end
(how cold and sharp does your
running blood, runny nose feel)
with the tip of your thumb,
hoping that this dulling
will cut you up into bite-sized pieces.
Pieces that scream in the wind.
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Old 05-10-2010, 05:20 PM View Post #27 (Link)
Spacepirate (Offline)
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Thread-box of words, spur of the moment,
spun around until the lines
cursively join, this curse
of poetic meter, and what not,
what is this not, lack of
wool meant you could
only stop
and start
when the sunset over the house,
and the boxes (in your garage),
dusty with lines, broke off into fragments
that you could spurn, yarning again
until there's no dye
to make this world colourful
and you can only now st--


---

LOL ^

EDIT: I'm not taking this whole poetry malarkey business seriously.
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Old 05-10-2010, 05:39 PM View Post #28 (Link)
Alice Glitterhorn (Offline)
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She said she's had enough
of glittering fairy tales
written on dried-up tombstones
and doors (that lead to)
stairs (that lead to)
towers (filled with)
doors, with nothing but a
sheer expanse of drop in
cellophane air, and she's tired
of the plummet through
romantic extinction that has
overtaken raw wounds, festering
around the edges, with a smell
that makes her marble-eyes
tear up and overflow
in light of neon moments.
She said she'll never lay horizontally
again, because it reminds her of
the innocent days in her mother's
rough reclining chair,
where she spent clock-revolutions
reading stories drowned in fantasy
that filled her head with
empty dreams and visions that
she called poison.

But she told us that she would
never touch a book again
for fear of paper-cuts.

--

Why does everything I write always seem so cliche?
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Spoiler:
Originally Posted by Caleb
when I hear the word poet

I think of you naked, rimbaud drinking, and how lovely my hair is


They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the bong-tree grows;
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood,
With a ring at the end of his nose,

Word Count: 10000/50000
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Old 05-10-2010, 08:21 PM View Post #29 (Link)
Spacepirate (Offline)
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Edited:

---


There's a tree outside this window
collecting most of Jack's treats,
they hang like little bladed
instruments that play the tunes;
ominous are the winter songs.
So sweet are the notes
like candy crystals,
stained-glass sugar flies, with their
tongues stuck out in cold.
You can plop them in your mouths,
those lollipops hanging from the tree,
ringing out as you brush past
your breathe, ducking and weaving
through walls. Clanging vibrations
fells the sweets, littering the ground
with bits of pinata bark, bruised
wide open until a darkly caramel
oozes out...drops by drops...

Your only wish is that you could
pluck them off their buds
like icy strawberries,
and lay them on your knees,
drumming each end
with the tip of your thumb,
edgy nails stained red
with their pooling juice,
hoping that this dulling
will cut you up into bite-sized pieces.
Pieces that will scream;
ice-cream or otherwise.
  
						Last edited by Spacepirate; 05-10-2010 at 08:26 PM.
					
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Old 05-10-2010, 08:40 PM View Post #30 (Link) The Battle.
RasberryRachel. (Offline)
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Slowly my heart stops,
Waiting
Waiting
For the almighty crash about to befall the earth,
If you listen you can hear the tinkling sound of death,
Death as it cowers in the distance readying itself for the pounce
And this is what we have done.
What I have done.
What you have done.
Yet no one repents,
No one, begs for forgiveness,
Nobody cares.

The world is already silent sleeping dormant,
Only I can hear the approaching tinkling sounds
So sweet yet I cannot bare to hear it's wrath,
And where are you?
The brave gallant soldier has all but disapeared now the time is near
So I rest against the wall and say aloud
"So be it, another ending to end them all, try your best to put me down."
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