I'd like to suggest people throw some "from the keyboard" poetry. Stuff that isn't pre-written and can just come straight from the mind to the page here.

I held her hand,
As we walked the valley of gods,
She smiled and she wept to me,
"I need something to remember."
These final words awoke in me,
A fear of some magnitude,
But it's true voice,
Is long forgotten...

Her tone is mesmerizing,
the sound of her voice
and her sexual twang
quivers my quivering member...
the thought of her makes me shake,
like i'm convulsing with each orgasmic wave
that passionately paves the dreams
of sleeping with her by my side...
it pains me to wake alone,
but the anguish is forgotten
as thoughts of conversing with her
on the phone are prone
to be mesmerized by her tone...

What is quality when quantity is free? A farce? A lark?
What then do you see in comedy but jokes about reality?
Like life it's taxing. Fuck.

What's got in to the philosophical jive of a street corner kid?
Talking about blue notes when it's fucking daisies.
Hypocrite? no.
That would be too truthful, and the truth isn't funny. Well,
sometimes
when it's about politics.
or babies.

See? Mush. Absolute trash.
It's gone when I'm horny and it doesn't call.
(There's a lot of fun in dirty sex.)

Watch the cool cats with their big heads and egos melt their way down the street towards that once familiar spot. Feel it as it's in a state of fleeting... watching it go. Reaching out, a grasp at nothing, only air that fills you lungs and permits you to live a moment longer. What next, if next exists? Do we know? Do you know? Do I know? Or is it just a guessing game? Twenty questions with god, but only I can throw the dice. Besides, I'd rather play a drinking game. And what of those sleek designer recipe whores? Cookie cutter gimmick everyone a fashion plate. There really isn't a need for mirrors anymore. At least not while we're dressed.

An inspiration is old news a muse too silent in the screaming world. What we have in this is obligation. When the love is truly gone we die. The situation isn't beautiful, we all begin to lose our cool at some point. Stay away from the boiling places, they'll give you an ulcer. Just stop for a minute and smell the stink on your plate. Want seconds? Enjoy it while you got it, that's the only way.

I can't get beyond that mess of muck that some people are content to dwell in. Constantly shitting at anything that might get close to making sense. It's in these time shotguns come in handy. But only on the days I'm feeling grandiose. There's nothing wrong with pure contempt. What flows from that hot coursing blood is pure appetite. At least for the artists.

I'm tired;
as if some horrible
greek oddity,
some obscure
harpy or
bacannite
stole all that was good
and happy
and light.

Of course,
that's assuming
I had any to begin with.

So while I
copout and
mope, maybe
the infinite will
have mercy
or pity
and bring me some rum
and weed
and anime.

Of course,
I have some now,
but drinking alone makes me cry.

drinkin' alone just makes me sing louder!

my jaw was unhinged
the summer of '86,
and i sought revenge:

an hour of self-pity
a day is good for the
soul, particularly
when the recipient
of this endless
tirade of bullshit
perceives it to be
sincere.


i give good head on
lonely nights, my

way of payback.

UNAUTHORIZED REARRANGEMENT OF Fuckdoll's POEM!!!!!!

***THIS IS NOT MY POETRY, JUST A REFORMATING OF HERS!!!***

I.

Watch the cool cats
with their big heads
and egos
melt their way down the street
towards that once familiar spot.

Feel it
as it's in a state of fleeting...
watching it go.

Reaching out, a grasp
at nothing, only air
that fills your lungs and permits you
to live a moment longer.

What next, if next exists?
Do we know?
Do you know?
Do I know? Or
is it just a guessing game?

Twenty questions
with god, but only I
can throw the dice.

Besides,
I'd rather play
a drinking game.

And what of those
sleek
designer
recipe whores?

Cookie cutter gimmick,
everyone a fashion plate.

There really isn't
a need for mirrors
anymore.

At least
not
while we're dressed.


II.

An inspiration
is old news
a muse
too silent
in the screaming world.

What we have
in this
is obligation.

When the love
is truly gone
we die.

The situation isn't beautiful,
we all begin
to lose our cool
at some point.

Stay away
from the boiling places,
they'll give you
an ulcer.

Just stop
for a minute
and smell the stink on your plate.

Want seconds?
Enjoy it
while you got it,
that's the only way.


III.

I can't
get beyond that
mess of muck
that some people are content
to dwell in.

Constantly shitting
at anything
that might get close
to making sense.

It's in these times
shotguns
come in handy.

But only
on the days
I'm feeling
grandiose.

There's nothing
wrong with pure
contempt.

What flows from that
hot
coursing
blood
is pure appetite.

At least
for the artists.

Paper garden blues..

So drops the acid fairy,
Into the mind of the completely unawary.
Intoxication bated my willful breath;
As cool the rise of a lingering death.
And so it was with I.
All shod in sunlight and with lips to thigh.
Dressed in her many splendid lie.
Drowning in the inviolate beds;
Of the paper garden blues, and reds.

So stops the acid fairy.
There to find the foolishly wary.
Poisons to steel the breath.
Death by black silk lingerie no less.
Or so it seemed to me.
All grown in a mystery she lies.
Each last breath, each lover sighs.
In the luscious garden hues,
of the paper gardens reds, and blues.

mirage... that has a hellovalotta potential if you add a little polish. you're rhythm is a bit off, and your thoughts a little jolting, but you've got a decent voice.

I don't say this that often but...

I really liked your poem.

thank you!

(wow, it's been a while since i came down to the poetry section.)

"So what does it
matter,"
I say to myself
as I stare
at the screen
and wonder at
the prosaic nature
of the word.

The grave nature
of things
melodramatic
enough to
ridicule
can sometimes be
justified in hindsight
by it's truth.



***

not so happy with this... but, Off the Cuff is off the cuff, so...

good post