Hangover Poems

Would like to formally thank http://amoralfictionalism.tumblr.com/ (did I do that right?) for liking my entry, http://pandagolucky.tumblr.com/post/13573493917/kissingthemoon-writing-prompt-entry.

You fuckers left me twisting in the wind. That was vulnerable stuff.

The nerve.

I’m not a bad painter.

You guys really look like that

to me

http://sittingonthewindowledge.tumblr.com/post/13526384528/kissing-the-moon

edited into a new post since I think I did it wrong a minute ago

MA ADULT CONTENT!

My feeble attempt:

it’s amazing just how brightly the smell of condoms
can stain your brain. I always think of it as
plastic gasoline almost
and they’re always trouble. Trouble comes in circles
around what // you may call a body
so tight
you cannot spread my heartstrings the way
you can my lips
or my legs
my iridescent genderless form almost like a checkerboard
splayed amongst all those black
locking things. But you don’t have to
anymore. Your feet are the size of mountains
to me.
Please let me look a little longer
as sad as I want to be
please don’t tie up my eyeballs.

Um… Are we allowed multiple entries? If this is too “out there” I’ll take it down.

FUCKING LOVE THIS READ AND SUBSCRIBE YE MORTALS

builtforlowlight:

if i don’t drink for a few days
i become razor sharp,
powerful,
a gladiator of normal everyday shit

but slowly
it fades.

the faces
and
the
pettiness
and the
traffic
and the weather
and the
lack of
originality
in all the words, signs, and places
take it away
a day at a time

and then
i get strength from 
a good night
out
with
a bottle
and the
falling stars

Sometimes a poem has something important to say

but sometimes the absolute best ones just seem to

choke before they get there.

Or maybe it’s me?

11/30/2011 — 1908

So I didn’t really feel like putting one of these out today, but I intend to follow through and write these every couple of days for those who are curious.

Somber for some reason, tired from work and hungry.

I’m fluent in Mandarin. It’s still weird to me. I love the way the language sounds if spoken by a talented politician or orator, but I <i>hate</i> most other forms of it. It’s completely different from English and I wouldn’t say it has helped my English much at all.

We’re out of water here. But not beer.

Ordering Chinese, to break my fast. I’m obsessed with fasting, I just like feeling hungry, especially if I haven’t written anything for a while, ‘cause that makes me feel shitty.

Look I’m not proud of the “random fact”-ness of these journals. But it is an outlet for me to type more colloquially and express more tangible aspects of my life. That said, if you think doing this takes away from the essence of this (my) blog, please, don’t hesitate to say so to me.

In case you haven’t notice I kinda have low self-esteem.

But who doesn’t? It’s a much easier way to live.

I have so many final lines
to lure in young
openings, with soft eyes of vowels
round and sonorous. I am sometimes, also,
a poem. My body each morning becomes elaborate
‘I’s and ‘r’s — my brain an
o, slender cock a n’s ass or
excited. My breath though
will always drag like a novel from the old world
undecipherable. My heart is not the same as yours.
But this isn’t another poem to you, my body
bends agnostically, I gurgle
to whomever. I’m so afraid of choking.
I’ve learned so many words
. I’ve forgotten so many

there are so many books

between the skin of the Earth

and the nearest planet. I enjoy the word

‘outcry’ for its simplicity but have

such a small tongue. I think that

‘permanent’ is also a nice word

to play with.

a single finger fits like a thermometer

between lips they abandon the quilt of one another

creating a chasm for my

slimy body. I don’t understand why people think hearts look

-

-

-

that way.

I’m so sick of love poems

and unrequited love, in general

I just want someone to keep writing like they’re scared

of someone other than

everyone else.

I’d rather be desired for my soul than my merit than my body.

But please desire me.

I remember fondly the siren songs
i. .sung from half-parted female lips and
ii. haunting the transparent bodies of martini glasses
….all perfect circles

.iii. remember fondly the hot wax
of cheap earbuds slow dripping
the music of dead people
the bluebirds born from pine trees
also trying to say something

4. A Siren’s song hung nude from bookmarks
lingered in museum doorways roaring
like the sound the sight of cockroaches
says to brain
I still see through illegally tinted eyes
the way a wet paintbrush would lean against a canvas
like a ladder leading
somewhere useless.

11. there have been many black holes between us people
(is that where he has gone to?) but
I remember tentacles of poetry yet
soaked in mucus
my soul a greasy thing to grip
I think

but the vicodin
I stuck to like a rusted nail.

Too broken at this moment

for any poetry to escape unscathed

all of my thoughts come out

a little burned up.

everything reflects

the pond between the apartments and the road

the pond of your eyes

blood

glass in the gutters

green and white

knives

somewhere there is

a very bright light.

EDIT: YES I SAW THE TYPOS! I wrote this naked, after having sprinted out of the shower, with shampoo in my hair, before I forgot it. Sorry.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Having already been reblogged by one of the best today, I know I should hush up until tomorrow, but, well, I do drugs. Everyone is always writing love poems and I HATE love poems, so I wrote a reversed one. I don’t know how some of you still fuck me. This is the poem I would write if I was dating me.

———————————————————————————-

it sometimes feels like you’re ancient
I dredge for you
beneath bright green bedspreads
your body rubber
, becoming grease,
soul slippery,
are you cursed?

You say a man’s body is a temple
what sort of instrument
do you think a woman’s is? An innocent face
is never enough — You treat me
like a bellow, when
you let your body onto mine
you still look
snuffed. Or with your body against a wall
like a slanted sword
I, a Capulet. Remember,
how you hate the Capulets?

if you really don’t see diverging worlds
then part of your eyes at least
still see smoke. Pretend further that
starlight, also, might caress your chin
pretend further that silence
can feed a woman.
When you play piano and want me to dress
alone
I wonder if you’d like me to understand words the way you do
to know that your heart really isn’t a metronome
your brain is.

Good deed for the day. Okay, now I promise to be less annoying and come back to you guys with some poetry today.

whiskeyfromacoffeemug:

pandagolucky replied to your photo: Tumblr Crushes: pavorst cheshirecatgrins …

D’aaaaw!

lol. That made me smile! =].

Today I am going to post amazing poetry, and then edit it into terrible emo shitfests ten minutes later.

I’m going to make it look like YOU guys like terrible writing!

as if anyone who followed me wasn’t already overtly a fan of terrible writing

my alphabet feels homeless
no demesne or seraglio
to gambol in no
mellifluous ingénue
to come upon
my alphabet rides boxcars
of pussy and codiene
drinking
shout

mesmerized

Bad night. Sleep.

A bed is a cliff
I hope I fall again
into roses

Goodnight

Im so sick of poetry
it’s pious slut
bonesaw
wanting
Brain.

There are so many words on the planet
and surrounding space I have never read Hegel

its like serenading a suggestion box.

I can’t write angry
sometimes I want to be a deep sea fish
Indistinguishable
Elusive

the facts are
as lonely as an unkept house
but my dreams
have more faces than
I’ve ever seen.

Still my favorite poet on Tumblr, follow this man!

unspecializeart:

From numerous nipples on the
undersides of a dozen
feral felines
pours the milk of
happiness.
-
Come one and all,
even you sir and madam
could be overcome with the prized
possession, owning a pure
joy.
-
Let’s do it.
-
Elevators going into the sky.
-
A robot hand presses several buttons for its
shadowy owner, a periscope, screen replaces
Arabic words on a teleprompter.
-
Gather all the purple and pour it in the
cash grab booth.
-
You’re the winner!

the world after klonopin and beer

bends a rubber spine

up through the streets and up your sneakers

bones and young bloody mucsles

my brain bends

so sweetly

without

objection.

http://pandagolucky.tumblr.com/ask

I’m so tiredin love

with chasing the pills through

all the timid pillars still trying to hold my life

(a glass pane stained with a scorpion)

in one place,

together. Let all the

wise supernovas become dense

contradictions. Let all

scabbed face of contemporary poetry

be forgotten

let the alphabets

of our fathers’ smolder

and cool.

amoralfictionalism:

At the center of me there is
instability.
My ego is a plate—balanced—on a stick
by a man on a unicycle,
on a tight rope,
in an heroic struggle against,
Gravity.

Smash.
Glue.
Repeat. 

Modern poetry

is a giant garbage pit.

For some reason someone

keeps throwing away diamonds.

I write because expressing how directionless I feel on the Earth is the safest way I can think of to affect something else in the world.

I have one if those jobs you’re not allowed to talk about. All of my money goes to ridiculous shit because I’m a child.

I am not an alcoholic, but I thoroughly enjoy psychedelics.

I am a polyamorous genderqueer. That doesn’t mean I am a femme lollipop or a lumberjack, it means I can appear to be either as I see fit. I usually identify as asexual and find sex itself kind of obtuse, but am an incurable bondageslut. No, that doesn’t mean I’ll fuck you, anon, but you could try writing me a poem.

I am 22 and live in the middle of nowhere. I want to move to San Francisco for sex or New York for art. I enjoy childish clothes. I have a tumor on my kidney. I write poems.

the whole of existentialism reads like a hot mess
this entire generation doesn’t have a leg to stand on
the problem is everybody knows it.

the voice of a woman is
what perfume might whisper
from a suitcase
amid silk. A man
has been said to
always ask of
alcohol pleading questions.
My larynx is so stuffed up
with garbage
from airport bars
and dictionaries

alabaster toilet
is so cold. Looks so clean
in yellow light
I never question my life more
than when such a pretty thing
does something
so grotesque.

when I was a child
I made words out of magnets
words out of blocks
now I’ve gotten high so many times
trying to hold one
like that again

I can’t sleep
there are all of these rocks in my throat
I’d like to skip them on pond’s breasts
if only I could
still smell where the water lived
at.

I am a radish garden
garnered with such little attention
too bad I
also hate radishes.

I must age noticably to Christmas
coming only once a year
to make sure I get to go home
that we don’t kill ourselves
each year it gets longer like
it was growing out it’s hair
or getting fat or something.
Every year I get less
.I
Give less
,
. Well,
Maybe the years all get smaller

Now I’m off to bed and to try and work on a collab. Night Tumblr, try and stop work from coming to me

buried in the great gargle
of the toilet’s throat I wonder
if those trees in the neighbor’s yard
adorned with translucent netted
cones and wire chambers might
be yours?

well…
I like you better homeless
some vagrant wanderer of this world
denied of romance or soul
far easier be you spat out from
the underbelly an abandoned bed
than from an egg cluster. I see
your slender arm last
from that dark chamber. How long
your arms are

how much tighter than I
you might have gripped my life

drunk texts
are like messages from beyond
I sure hope I don’t
have to regret shit in heaven.

“I’m trying to use the language of today to express a general existential crisis that I think the world and I are going through.” -Sean Lennon

has more cliffs than valleys
all embroidered with
dark lands
I’m sure the peaks could be
of such great civilization
if only he hadn’t
eaten that bumper.

thevagabondking:

in the
other room
is

a dreaming
queen,
tucked away
in
a comforter,

protected
from the lions
and bears
she once
feared 

i’m
out here,
a monster
tamed

for the
first time 

A personal fav. from a talented writer.

a fist
(being of equal size)
could never hold a heart. Why
do I feel this drum beat
with both hands
against your off-white breasts
like a thrashing fish lies within
covered in ammo belts. Bras
must be so expensive
to contain her. It was also
a sexual organ, trying always to
extend out into the closet
spill like a overflown liquid into
the streets and their lips
made of gutters
and car wrecks.

A man’s heart

—-
is like a pistol

.

he’ll discharge but one wounding shot while

his dick keeps beating

.

there are so many love poems

but so little redemption

while we get bigger

it gets smaller.