nd it was suddenly, you kno but i definitely hadn’t expec e way her body kinda broke miling from between both e like she’d never done poetr all at once it kinda just ope like a window i was staring into.
“…I prefer to think about it not as a competition to be the best, but as an attempt to find a place among the others. I like to think that all the writers I like do something unique, and I want to do something unique too. Ultimately, I want it so that we aren’t comparable. Instead, I want to be able to sit side by side like some kind of interesting jigsaw puzzle. There is more than one way to a good poem…”—UnSpecialArt
i don’t quite remember when my voice started to go out like a dimming bulb and somehow i, a mute drunk and very existential soul still found my way home but am i grateful? What dark alleys of the heart can I drain the rest of these thick lumps from. All of them wanting to become poems but i am inadequate and afraid. Inside an ocean a tiny mote without one iota of aspiration or purpose who can buy a gun.
get down to that still drunk section of your heart that anorexic wide-legged mother of all of your desires. I just want you once again to live a little with me by killing something inside of you. can’t we get high again in the theater? and maybe when we make out two “men” in an alley little one and Big Boy someone will see you the way I see you and die a little also.
meant to queue this, I’ll let your dashboards recover for a while and go find some water.
UnSpecialArt definitely still my favorite poet on Tumblr. Amazing stuff and I’ve cussed at him on more than one occasion for making me feel shitty by being so good.
Dying Fiction I haven’t been following as long or as faithfully but is on this post by sheer merit. Really good stuff I think and well worth checking out.
She’s an Argonaut I try to not like these poems, I don’t know why, but I end up falling in love with way too many of them. Definitely take a look.
Secreted Sins Another poet who I’ve never spoken to but admire thoroughly. You’re cheating yourself if you enjoy poetry and aren’t following.
BeadsofThought I’m more of an avid reader of this blog because she puts out such a consistent quantity of work. Don’t worry though, the quality is still superb, it’s uncanny.
Loqui What can I say? Another great poet who is very surprising at times. If you can’t tell already, I love inventiveness, and if you do too, this is the blog you should be following.
built for low light one of the absolute best poets on Tumblr. I will stand by that statement with all of the little dignity I have until the end. IF YOU LIKE POETRY AND AREN’T FOLLOWING BUILT FOR LOW LIGHT THAN YOU ARE A FOOL.
you, my sunshine, my only sun to lay upon my burning body our burning bodies just don’t lose your hair please let me lay upon it. A soft opening brunette chamber for souls like I
still wasted let’s never be sober again I’m tired of trying to not freak out to deal, man, let’s just divvy up our whiskey and weed and our young legs spread wide the pussies of our souls the assholes of our desires and let our mouths be the silent stone they want to be.
this planet is a large wet crater living here is like living here is like well i guess it’s really not all that bad i just kinda thought that by now our flapping gums would have cured something or solved something worthwhile. the skin and blood hanging from my bony mass with desire and dysphoria which fuck off spell-check, is totally a word bulges in such odd places. Does it also want to leave this Earth?
I know not. "Doubt is uncomfortable Certainty is ridiculous.” I spy on people for a living in a country i don’t believe in I don’t believe in anything.
beneath morning sunshine
my body rises yet again
still young and graceless in the city
she stirs also in the morning yet
i send my form into the shower like
a stalling biplane
we will retire to the soft summer blanket of Florida once more.
we will transform slowly from being these yet unexploded bombs into an old couple not quite married who cling to one another and smoke pot together still hoping to disassemble Medeski, Martin and Wood from our
garage. i just want for once
to watch someone age completely
and peacefully. please, don’t explode
and stop writing sad poems. i want only to watch your skin rise up in wrinkles to meet me like a plant rises to the sun. shift with such a gentle stillness,
stay a while.
our unearthly bodies
full of acid
shook like piano springs
under that Moonlight Sonata staring up
at the 9 pm sky like it were also some
yet unstruck spring so sure
that our lives were gonna change
with breasts like bruised melons, she approached as naked as any woman had ever been and as ashamed sticking to the shadows of the bedroom like a velcro sloth or common vermin but no i shouldn’t say such a thing her fine cigarette smoke still upon my jacket my own skirt rustles against my manhood still dripping, naive about the night.
a molten pipe in my heart put-
puttering down a city street
inside that green celica
waiting for some large hand to feed me
i find john (also a hungry soul
half-melted from that summer) and
we hunt marijuana joints like
two worms beneath a low sun
rolling in the dirt.
poetry, poems, poetics, spilled ink, spilling ink, read me, like me, reblog me, critique me, sad poems, sad poetry, depression, nihilism and existentialism, big words, words, poems about the world, lost poems, as hungry as I am, poetry and drugs, drunk poetry, poems from the past, poems from the future, bad poetry, emotional poetry, poems my soul said when my heart was speechless.
your heart must be made of cashmere i think and fall through the evening like an anvil through a sky of alternating black and blue vistas blank before the poets. I have now rested my soul upon an also resting soul that our two smells might make out of the swamp of our existence some shining beacon. Some resistance to the intoxication of its breath looming nearer screaming spindly specter of a more tangible earth still beneath us.
I WILL KEEP TRYING and this one is called impressions in shadow
there is so little time for us.
there are so few vistas left
to intertwine our legs and
meaty sides in. so sparse
has grown the fauna all
our favorite birds once
sang to us from, all
their throats so
. let us remember not
the dull background static
poetry has sunk into shallow
depths of the earth — remember
the staggering pits we have made
not with literature but rather
by piling our small bodies
your chest feels like the skin of my freshly (un)frozen beer bottle. I am sure the snowglobe you’ve blown your heart into (though you swear it was done by a boy named Mike [fake name]) must also be a pretty globe to look into like you, still or shaken. i find its fragility most attractive and fucking sexy falling from unrecoverable heights.
Best is a big word. Probably punching my second guardian/father/thing in the face when I was little. He was not a good guardian and that was the first time I hit anyone. That was also the first night I ran away and I realized that I could make it on my own. Right or wrong at the time, I mean, the cops picked me up and I was taken back though I did get situated with a different guardian shortly after, it doesn’t matter, what mattered was that that night was the bravest I had ever been and just FEELING like I could survive myself alone in the world for one night at that age was what I tried to write my first poem about. Then my elementary teacher told me it was kinda confusing and that she didn’t get what I was trying to say (it was really, really, really shitty) so I didn’t try poetry again for almost a decade. true story bro. THE SECOND TIME I TRIED 2CE I ACTUALLY DECIDED TO EMBRACE STONER STEREOTYPES AND BLASTED PINK FLOYD WHILE MY OWNER DROVE ME IN THE CAR TO GET PIZZA IT WAS PRETTY FUCKING AWESOME TOO THOUGH SO I DONT KNOW
the planet’s vast evening had wrecked upon the bare face of the window like a black-blue sledgehammer swung by unseen insects. Suddenly he was drunker yet by her measure. Her large Sauron’s eye accounting of the missing bottles from their small second fridge in the small apartment where they both drawled on and on and on and on a n d o n a n d o n with the insects trying to water the lushness of their hearts. He was always drunk by some standard, a tiny weevil whose life was muck beneath some shining kingdom neither one had yet seen reappear from a fabled homestead. "maybe it didn’t exist or maybe we’re just the wrong people for kingdoms.” life is so drawn out with maybes. He thinks. Dawdles in the white and blue plaid zen of the kitchen, moves into the burgundy zen of the bedroom, forgoes the zen of lovemaking and forgoes yet further, such wonderful things yet to be beholden or be behold for sleep as simple and as drunk as he could get it.
dreams of escape OH LOOK AN ORIGINAL POEM FROM ME TODAY WOW AND I DIDN'T EVEN GET HIGH
into great silence we drifted gentle as toothless cats who have clawed before at moons as distant and unreachable as ships sunken beneath each unseen coast, we among Arizona, siblings of dark beer our pierced lips each shining crescents eyes like shallow graves waiting to bury the other of our two adolescent souls with smiles of shining crescents beneath the buildings, adjourning the ether and the world.
sorry I’ve been out today! An ex came over and apparently I’m such a nice guy/girl that I will not refuse your blatant signals for “I still miss you sex” so much as I will find platonic conversation to distract you with for ten hours until you have to start your shitty midnight shift.
Promise more original stuff tonight/tomorrow guys!
poems are not creative writing that’s a class they offered at my high school. but sometimes
something seizes your small human body somewhat naked depending on whether or not you count your sleeper shirt with the burgundy wine all about it between the apartment where you live and the dumpster …
in my discount brown jacket and underwear, I’m listening to an album by The Pixies and running one smooth leg against the drywall inelegantly wondering why I suddenly crave molly wondering why i keep waiting for the anvil to come off of my head so I can stand. What am I doing with my life?
the most dramatic way i could start a poem but if i truly didn’t have any heart left why, why would i still leave the radio running on my way to the bookstore not to buy, or to browse, but to drag my colored-pearl eyeballs slowly like slugs across…
at night it has dim blind eyes a used shotgun shell of lakes and hemorrhaging streams the building shrink until it’s an aging savanna my grandmother lies so still ahead of me. Swollen brain and eyes like sunken ships if only I could make it faster what treasures they could hold.
the wind was creeping in the open bar-lit window but you weren’t, most of your essence already filling the grave of my basement hovel stretched sleeping on the couch as alone as I was. or maybe you were dreaming of other artists also sleeping in the basements of small men, wanting some day to fall from the great height of literature into some grave of your own? The eggs were nearly ready my own soul so infertile you half-through my chapter of your life like a dug-in rake.
i a stoic at your place
wound up on the couch
your return to us vessels
that still linger in the orb of moonlight
let into your Manhattan apartment
filling our bodies like a black mist
shrill as ice
for the return of your body
seeing her sober
so naked in her yellow dress so
surrounded on all sides
with blue skies the
clear eyes of her father
he has never seen her drunk
but i have
bucking like a dying animal
eyes wide and lazy
slurred speech filled with longing.