Let's see the poems you're writing. Or if you're not writing any, you can post some written by other people. Or you can just discuss poetry more generally

The Monster

I left my room at last, I walked
The streets of that decaying town,
I took the turn I had renounced
Where the carved cherub crumbled down.

Eager as to a granted wish
I hurried to the cul de sac.
Forestalled by whom? Before the house
I saw an unmoved waiting back.

How had she never vainly mentioned
This lover, too, unsatisfied?
Did she dismiss one every night?
I walked up slowly to his side.

Those eyes glazed like her windowpane,
That wide mouth ugly with despair,
Those arms held tight against the haunches,
Poised, but heavily staying there:

At once I knew him, gloating over
A grief defined and realized,
And living only for its sake.
It was myself I recognized.

I could not watch her window now,
Standing before this man of mine,
The constant one I had created
Lest the pure feeling should decline.

What if I were within the house,
Happier than the fact had been
—Would he, then, still be gazing here,
The man who never can get in?

Or would I, leaving at the dawn
A suppler love than he could guess,
Find him awake on my small bed,
Demanding still some bitterness?

-Thom Gunn

I came across this when reading Thom Gunn’s Collected Poems recently, and it reminded me so strongly of this scene from Swann’s Way:

> “He remembered the gas-jets being extinguished along the Boulevard des Italiens when he had met her against all expectations among the errant shades on that night which had seemed to him almost supernatural and which indeed—a night from a period when he had not even to ask himself whether he would be annoying her by looking for her and finding her, so certain was he that she knew no greater happiness than to see him and to let him take her home—belonged to a mysterious world to which one never may return again once its doors are closed. And Swann could distinguish, standing motionless before that scene of remembered happiness, a wretched figure who filled him with such pity, because he did not at first recognise who it was, that he had to lower his eyes lest anyone should observe that they were filled with tears. It was himself.
>When he had realised this, his pity ceased; he was jealous, now, of that other self whom she had loved, he was jealous of those men of whom he had so often said, without suffering too much: “Perhaps she loves them,” now that he had exchanged the vague idea of loving, in which there is no love, for the petals of the chrysanthemum and the letterhead of the Maison Dorée, which were full of it.”

I did some research, and apparently Gunn actually spent a year studying Proust in Paris when he was in his twenties, and considered him a huge influence. So, I thought it was an interesting parallel.

>>24428893 (OP)
I miss the old OP pic

>>24430066
change is a part of life

I want to share mine but they're not bad and I don't want a permanent record of them in Warosu. Any alternatives to lit where I can share poetry without having to worry about that shit?

>>24430816
just post them as an image. they won’t show up in search engines that way.

>be me
>depressed neet incel manchild
>be 30ish
>get a job
>get a 19yo zoomer gf
>get apartment
>have a two year relationship
>zoomer girl leaves me for being a depressed retard
>write her bad poetry
>she compliments it, but it doesn't get her to come back

I can't even see the word poetry without cringing now. This was your average, illiterate zoomer party girl who uses the word "finna" and I tried to win her back with romantic poetry. Holy fuck, what was I thinking. I bet she shared it with all of her friends and laughed at me.

>>24430890
>>be 30ish
>>get a job
>>get a 19yo zoomer gf
yikes, that violates the gap of consent

>>24430890
Sorry for posting this here, I'm a little fucked up. Carry on, poets.

>>24430896
It was pretty gross, in hindsight. Nothing abnormal about wanting to have sex with beautiful young women, but yeah, in my right mind I wouldn't have acted on a desire for a relationship with a stupid teenager. She was a pretty girl who gave me attention, what was I to do.. okay I'm leaving the thread now. I'm embarrassed for posting this here. Goodbye.

>>24430890
Who tf asked?

>>24429337
AI slop

>>24431423
What exactly is it about this that reads as AI to you? Do you think the poem is AI, or that the quotation from the novel is AI? Do you think that my three brief sentences of commentary are AI? Is it that incomprehensible to you that I read a poem that I thought was good, and was reminded of a scene from a novel that I had been rereading around the same time? It’s baffling to me that you would even think that AI had anything to do with this. AI is notorious for being incapable of providing accurate quotations, and furthermore, why would it even occur to an AI to connect these two particular texts? The poem especially is relatively obscure; it isn’t even readily available on the Poetry Foundation website or anywhere else online, as far as I can tell. At this point, you barely-literate morons will read any post longer than a single sentence and accuse it of being AI. Fuck off.

Switch flipped from 'living death' to 'creative diarrhea' again, this time I'm apparently getting a divorce and selling a house. Ok? Anyway, responded by writing a bunch of rap lyrics as a 30yo white british shut-in who never listened to rap before. Any black american amigos pls tell me what I can improve (this is your poetry right?)

eurgh
imagine being compared to me
in any shape or form
If someone mistook me for me in the dark
I'd vomit until dawn (with shame)

should be a category of porn
that's just pics of me nailed to a tree
and melting away in a storm
wow
I would jack to that
In fact I just had one at the fact
I even imagined something as based as me being erased
nnf
imagine my face replaced by an empty space

That's a net improvement
To the bleak collision of empty movement
We all aspirate on every day
while pretending death will just go away
if we do that fake laugh
"I'm ignoring you"
Like you do when you see your ex from school
Yeah that's fixed it ho ho ho
won't be laughing when it's time to go

oh speaking of which by the way
if you see yourself as heroic or in any way brave
for sort of dipping a toe in reality
before going back to the crowd and saying:
'hey did you see me?'
I was a big brave boy
but that's enough for me
I've seen the light now I'm in recovery'

Then I sincerely hope you fucking die
For the crime of being me
But on a slight delay

Socrates tries Poetry, by anon

As Robert Frost once said, two roads diverged in a wood, but how did one come to the divergence? How did they come to the wood? How did they come to be in the first place? How did the wood come to be? How did the diverge come to be? Did anything come to be? May I-
He then vomits the hemlock he ate up and dies

"The House Where Grief Still Lives"
There is a house at the end of the mind,
Where grief sits quietly, aged and kind.
It pours no storm, it makes no sound,
It only waits — with both feet on the ground.

The walls are lined with echoes gone cold,
Photos of faces we’ll never grow old.
Their eyes still shine in frozen frames,
But time forgot to whisper their names.

On the table: a teacup, cracked and stained,
From hands that trembled but once remained.
A coat on a chair — untouched for years,
Still smells of rain, and hidden tears.

There’s a bed where a mother once lay awake,
Counting each breath for a child she’d make.
The child came, and then went away,
But the lullaby never learned how to fade.

Even the dust is careful here —
It falls like silence, soft and sincere.
No one sweeps, no one dares,
To move the air where memory dares.

And yet —
In all this sorrow, strange and wide,
There’s beauty in what will not hide.
To love so much you break and stay,
Is the kind of ache that makes us pray.

Not for relief — but for the grace
To hold the hurt, and still give it a face.
To carry pain like a sacred art,
And let it live inside the heart.

Let me know if you'd like this poem in Arabic, or want music, narration, or visual art to accompany it. I'm with you.

>>24431833
I tend to like dark/edgy/whatever poetry but that's got a nice kind of powdery sleepy vibe to it. I will say it could stand to be way shorter though. Two of those stanzas would be a lot more memorable than the whole thing

>>24431923
>>24431833
How are you this stupid? That’s the most obvious AI-generated poem I’ve ever seen, and it’s dogshit. They even left in a residual sentence at the end of the AI offering to generate further content.

>>24432005
Who's the poet?

>>24432042
Me, lol

>>24432056
It’s excellent. Did you post the translation as well?

>>24432068
I’m very flattered! And yes, that’s mine too. I could post another piece or two, if there’s interest in that.

>>24432089
I’d love to read more of your work, if you’re interested in sharing more.

>>24432092
Here’s another recent sonnet of mine.

>>24432005
>>24432008
>>24432108
i don't get these. what meaning were you going for

the worms in my head
are very poor tenants
how much I'd like to evict
the worms in my head
but the sons of bitches
have real silver tongues
the cops always take their side

>>24430896
Jealousy is unbecoming.

>>24429337
I don't really get this poem. Can anyone explain?
Does he go to see a lover and realizes he's just another munch cuz there's other uncared for lovers?

But the country,
shaken by grief,
just muttered:
This is what I do.

No rent.
No key.
Just forever.

>>24432108
I love it. You are very talented!

>>24432211
>Does he go to see a lover and realizes he's just another munch cuz there's other uncared for lovers?
This interpretation is zoomer brainrot made manifest.
Okay. Let me put my useless humanities degree to good use, and do a little close reading for your benefit.

>I left my room at last, I walked
>The streets of that decaying town,
>I took the turn I had renounced
>Where the carved cherub crumbled down.
He’s left his room at last—this suggests that he’s been isolating himself, retreating from life, brooding over the past, but has finally decided to take action. He walks the streets of a “decaying” town, mirroring his emotional state—neglected, rotting, in disrepair. He takes the turn he had renounced, meaning that he is returning to a place he had once resolved never to return to. (Why?) The carved cherub, a statue of some kind, a landmark on the way to his destination, is crumbling down—something that symbolizes love and innocence is literally falling apart before his eyes. All of this sets the stage for what follows, giving us insight into the speaker’s emotional state.

>Eager as to a granted wish
>I hurried to the cul de sac.
>Forestalled by whom? Before the house
>I saw an unmoved waiting back.
He’s eager to reach his destination, because he hopes that something he desperately longs for—a granted wish— will be waiting for him there. But as he approaches the house, he is forestalled: he sees someone standing in his way who has gotten there first, who is already waiting outside, occupying the space and role that he intended to occupy. He is immediately displaced and disoriented.

>How had she never vainly mentioned
>This lover, too, unsatisfied?
>Did she dismiss one every night?
>I walked up slowly to his side.
This stanza makes his intentions explicit: he’s returning to the home of a former lover, hoping to see her. Immediately, he projects his own emotional state onto the strange figure he sees. He wonders: is this man another lover of hers that I never knew about? Is he, like me, unsatisfied and still yearning for her? Was I just one of many lovers that she’s been with and dismissed, i.e. did I never have any significance to her at all?

>Those eyes glazed like her windowpane,
>That wide mouth ugly with despair,
>Those arms held tight against the haunches,
>Poised, but heavily staying there:
Now we have a series of physical descriptors that border on grotesque. This strange man’s despair has made him ugly: his eyes are glazed, his posture is tense, he is beset by a feeling of heaviness. These all serve the function of defamiliarizing this stranger; the speaker is observing this man’s physicality and emotional state as though seeing him for the first time.

>>24432211
>>24432349
>At once I knew him, gloating over
>A grief defined and realized,
>And living only for its sake.
>It was myself I recognized.
This is the turning point. Suddenly, the speaker recognizes the strange figure outside—the “other lover” is *himself.* There is no one else. What he is looking at is the physical manifestation of his own grief. He has been self-indulgently wallowing in his pain, internalizing his heartbreak and longing to such a great extent that these feelings have taken over his life and have consumed him. He has become someone he struggles to recognize. He has become a stranger to himself.

>I could not watch her window now,
>Standing before this man of mine,
>The constant one I had created
>Lest the pure feeling should decline.
Having been forced to quite literally face himself, to grapple with what he has become, he can’t even bear to watch for his former lover any longer. He realizes that has created a whole identity around waiting for her and longing for her, and this has sustained the “pure feeling” of grief over what he has lost, preventing his pain from dissipating.

>What if I were within the house,
>Happier than the fact had been
>—Would he, then, still be gazing here,
>The man who never can get in?
Now, he wonders, what if I had never lost her? What if I was inside with her and we were happy together, more happy than we had ever been in reality? Would some part of me then, still be unsatisfied, still remain detached, still be longing for something unattainable? Am I the “man who never can get in”—someone who is incapable of true connection with others, who will never be complete, will never be loved in a way that allows me to integrate all parts of myself and makes me whole?

>Or would I, leaving at the dawn
>A suppler love than he could guess,
>Find him awake on my small bed,
>Demanding still some bitterness?
This final image touches on the idea of him leaving his lover’s house at dawn—they’ve spent the night together, shared intimacy with each other, and he’s experienced something flexible, yielding, tender, that is incomprehensible to the version of himself that remains outside. But, he asks: even after all of that, would I return to my own bed and find this darker part of myself waiting for me? Would some part of me be compelled to reject this gentle, satisfying experience of love, and still demand to find some source of resentment? Is this part of me—this longing, this bitterness—something so fundamental that I can never escape it?

In essence, the poem begins with him seeing his lost love as the source of his suffering, and ends with him wondering: am I the true source of my own suffering? Is my emotional pain self-created and self-sustaining? Is this a pattern that I will be doomed to repeat indefinitely? Am I the titular monster?

>inb4 some idiot accuses me of using AI
I wrote every word of this myself. Some people just actually enjoy effortposting.

>>24428893 (OP)
Orchards and vineyards,
And full-breasted houris,
And a cup overflowing before me.
Why do I babble of battles,
And mountains reduced to dust?
Why do I feel these tears?

Heavens stand open
And scatter their riches;
My hands need but gather their wealth.
Why do I think of an ambush,
And poison in molten cup?
Why do I feel my years?

Love's arms beckon
With their naked delights,
And Eden's promise of ecstasies.
Why do I remember the scars,
Dream of old transgressions . . .
And why do I sleep with fears?

>>24428893 (OP)
fuck it.
couple drinks.
I'm a writer. In books, you have to write your own...
"song lyrics" or "poem"...
because copyrights.
Background is everything.
Main character?
his fiancee, was murdered.
just, from brushig up againt "something" at work.
MC found her, after her body stewing in the bathtub. For a couple days.
you can imagine how this fucked him up.
Cops put him thru the wringer.
if not for his fiancee's friend, a lawyer whoc ame and got him...
well.
He's on really strong antidepressant shots.
He has to shoot himself up with the stronger antidepressant shots, just to function.
He has no experience with songwriting or lyrics.
its just for him.
--------------------------------------------------------------
"the promise"

told you when I met
you know I won't forget
to remember why the time has slipped away

don't know where you've gotten
to you'll never be forgotten
I promised you, I'll make it there some day

sooner or later
so I put pen to paper
wrote out things that make most people cry

its been quite a while now
but you still make me smile somehow
just a thought and I don't have to try

it hurts to say good bye, to
things that make me cry, new
people places things they come and go

But I know where I'm going
to when the wind stops blowing
so I can make it there before they say

to put it all behind me
I'll keep it all inside me
so promise me I'll make it there some day

so I can hear my name begin
to make you feel the same again
just turn around and see the reason why

it took a little time to
make this promise come true
gets a little closer every day

I know you feel the same, on
days you make it rain so
I can taste, teardrops filled with pain, try

to keep them all inside me
can't put it all behind me gets
used to write down things to make them cry

cause I know where you've gotten to
a promise not forgotten who
went away to live inside the rain

the thunder calls my name to
come see you in the rain to
feel the tears you cry turn into rain, to

finally keep my promise to
come and be beside you
I promised you I'd make it here someday

--------------------------------------------------------

yeah. he's moving closer to either uicide, which he doesnt want,
or... exploding
and yeah, he does.
subtitle of the book?
"what happens when you push a man too far"
he finally snaps and takes revenge. le epic style..

I wanted... we all know the situation.
we put people on medication, then... somethign happens?
well, why not good guy, put in an untenable situation.
suicideoro revenge become his only options.

he eventually? Goes full 1488 on the bad guys when he finds out who. Cold, calculated revenge.

PIC FUCKING RELATED
make fun of it.
I tried.
not a poet or songwriter, but...
I just wanted that... holy shit emotional impact in it.
again? its just for him, to read it.

>>24430890
>I can't even see the word poetry without cringing now. This was your average, illiterate zoomer party girl who uses the word "finna" and I tried to win her back with romantic poetry. Holy fuck, what was I thinking. I bet she shared it with all of her friends and laughed at me.

thats her loss.
you tried.
one day, she'll look back.
fuck. I HAD what I want, no need now? I threw it away. laughed.

>>24430896
>yikes, that violates the gap of consent
fuck you.
"yikes" is a red flag for me now.
another redditor.

>>24432570
stop writing. you have no talent. this is garbage.

>>24432570
oh, yeah. background. The rain motif...
she was a weird chick, but, she was just for him.
she liked to get up in the middle of the night, and walk in the rain.
He hated it, then got used to it.
Now?
walking in the rain, is the only way he can feel half decent for a short time.
One of his nicknames for her? "Rain".

>>24432570
>>24432582
>>24432584
>>24432602
stop shitting up this thread with your worthless trash. no once cares. go away.

>>24432590
>>>24432570 (You)
>stop writing. you have no talent. this is garbage.
>
what a jackass you are.
its not "my" poem.
its literally? A character in a book, who has...
no experience with poetry or lyrics.
>
its MEANT to be "bad" poetry.
and, only mean something to him.
he "does" nothing with it..
>
so.. if its objectively bad?
Great! Its meant to be!
fuck wit.

>>24432615
>stop shitting up this thread with your worthless trash. no once cares. go away.
>
make me.

>>24432630
may I suggest, you hit the down-vote button, and...
oh. That's right.
there's you. Fucked.

>>24432590
>stop writing. you have no talent. this is garbage.
>
now, if (you) had any real talent?
you would take my idea, and wht I made it for?
and show me how its done.
fuck me, I'll credit you any way you want, if its objectively better.
>
but?
that's not (you)
you, are nothig but a demorialization shill.
with likely? less talent than me.
so?
suck, my uncircumcised... cock.
gatekeeping piece of shit.

now.
my "had to make something for a book" aside?
real poetry.
In I think 8th grade.
it was profound.

Was it... Invictus?
"so here I hang my heavy head, bludgeoned yet unbowed"
always loved that one.
and? I hope its "red flag" poetry,
that makes shills seethe.

>>24432354
>>24432349
Damn brou was both munches???

>>24432987
fr fr no cap bruh was on some spiderman meme shit no doubt

The whole samsaric wheel
Spinning and breaking
A whirlwind of fireworks
A pinwheel on a dime

Empty head
Free as air
To take any form

Gloating and shining in shade
Moving as ash

>>24432249
Are you okay?

>>24428893 (OP)
To the anon who was helping me in the last thread, I made a few tweaks. Feedback appreciated


Take from me my being,
I leave a piece with you,
And take from me my burdens,
And I will take from you;

Searing hot white iron
Shall brand us both forever
Until the skin grows over
And seals our tombs together

Departed though we'll be
I'll feel you, and you me,
Like two halves of a riven ship,
Adrift across the sea.

Love, how long must I still derive
From subtle hints chimeric hopes?
Am I deluded as to strive
To reach a madman's paradise?

Love, I am your most wretched slave.
I give you all, and receive not.
Whatever I could mean to save
For myself, you are quick to steal.

Heart, why are you your very foe?
With open arms you welcome love,
And towards your misfortune go.

In such a way that I would rather,
If that would stop your foolishness,
Your tenderness turn hard as leather.

>>24433071
Lol yes, just playing around with fragmentary and haunting language.

Her horizontal nystagmus gives her the appearance of reading some great text in the everyday affairs of life.
She waits for her carer with a leashed dog whose ears are overly domesticated,
Flopping and smooth,
Hanging over its canals,
Obscuring their sense.
A woman with a facial deformity gives my friend and I a bag of chips,
And I feed the dog and rub its ears,
Bribing it for its attention.
The carer comes from the shop,
And the dog comes to life,
But the girl with horizontal nystagmus sits still and continues reading things only she can know.

First, the Big Bang; expansion of space-time.
Before its heated course we cannot say.
Our laws are broken at its conception
And its expanding is continuing,
Though we know now it expands much faster
Than those primordial moments of time
When the first particles became and danced
In the early plasma of the cosmos.
Early particles smashed and bore atoms,
Matter spread with more uniformity,
And celestial bodies thus emerged.
Gravity, that ubiquity, formed stars
When dust and gas, spreading light years, condensed.
Trillions of stars must have extinguished
In those billions of years before Earth,
Exhausting their fuel inevitably,
Expanding or collapsing by God’s law,
Ejecting heavy elements through space.
Motion, mass, force, energy, time, space, fields;
Fundamental principles which govern
The observable universe we see;
Sculpted into reality by God
Like the faces carved into Mount Rushmore.
Around young stars there rotates gas and dust
Which collide and stick - planetesimals.
Our own Earth, Gaia, our womb, our coffin,
Molten rock and metal in infancy,
Cooled and began differentiation.
Her nickel and iron core, to the Sun,
Became equal in heat to its surface.
As volcanic gas formed her atmosphere
Water vapour condensed into oceans.
No firmament to divide the waters;
Our modern Genesis is chemical.
Primordial soups replete with protein
Perchance upon a recipe, that is,
Self-replicating organic matter;
Bacteria to multi-cellular.
The bacteria photosynthesize,
Oxygenating the Earth’s atmosphere.
From Poseidon’s domain came the land plants.
Raised from the oceans like a submarine,
They clung to the rock and clung to the soil.
Rootless and without seed, they spread by spore.
It would be one hundred million years,
One hundred million slow, lazy years,
Until the arrival of seeded plants.
The flower would wait twice that to arrive,
Trampled beneath the Stegosauri feet;
Avian ancestors displacing air
With the flapping of their primitive wings,
While early mammals scuttered in the night.

I hate the sun and the stars and the moon
I hate the howling of dogs
I hate the warm sea and the cool night jasmine

I hate time
I hate not moving
I hate everything

I hate the sounds that move through the morning when the sky turns blue, a different blue from the electric green of evening

I hate pondering the world

I hate sun
I hate rain
I hate everything

I don’t hate people

>>24433417
Are you the same anon who posted these poems?
>>24432005 >>24432008 >>24432108

>>24434666
No, I just like sonnets. Anon's is way better than mine, anyway.

《燃料》
该死的一天
你总不要脸
我逃逸身边
非爱而是骗

Pennylick

Floating high as a sinking ship.
My laughter is drowning me in the sky,
Radio buzzes every Clause and I reply with every pip.
And with every waltz, I loosen my grip
Of the handle of that penny lick.

I surrender to the golden stream,
Licking against the black banks,
Shining below the moonbeam.
And I drifted like a day dream
Of a falling scoop of ice cream.

Twisting and twirling and dashing,
My wings spans the thrusting air.
Reels before twirling and flashing,
I feel the archangel’s sword slashing.
My body feels the pavement, bashing,
The glass flying in shards, crashing.

My flesh burns and scrambles,
My wrists pinned and I’m used as an example.
My freaks play cymbals and ride camels,
They sing and taunt and gospel my rambles.
All of this for a worth of a penny lick!

>>24433417
what is this about?

“I said, whoever threw that paper, your mom’s a hoe”

Before the board, the aged tutor stands
Transcribing words, not knowing what transpires
Behind his back, where adolescent hands
Are crumpling looseleaf missiles to be fired.
The parchment tossed, the room o’erflows with mirth,
He turns, incensed: “Who cast this mangled ball?”
Oh, rue the day a strumpet did thee birth!
Thy foolish pride shall lead thee to thy fall!
Oh, churlish cur, thou shalt repent full sore!
Thou mongrel! Dost thou think I came to play?
I’ll catch thee out! Thy mother is a whore!”
In awe, his students ask: “What didst thou say?”
“Twas this: whoso that wretched paper threw,
Thy mother is a harlot! Yea, tis’ true!”

>>24433417
simp shit

>>24434718
I like them too, I posted some of mine in the last poetry thread. Have you written any others?

>>24434754
is this a good poem? if not why. thank you in advance

>>24428893 (OP)

Lads and lassies walk the earth,
We can not hold together anymore.
Free-er than freedom approaching a freedom
That is anarchy. Breaking all chains,
Chains of iron and chains of mind.
Discovering new chains to break,
Finally the chains they can not break.

Chains to entrust future lads and lassies with,
Who will walk the Earth. Among them,
Wanderers of day and wanderers of night
Decaying and slaves of plight. Lads and lassies
Who shall do and not think anymore. Break some
Chains and bring back the old chains of iron and of mind
To entrust future lads and lassies with who shall walk this earth.

Paper thin fish scales of torn skin flag
above furrows of trenchant flesh.

Dark red tallies set apart yet intersecting
take on a constellar arrangement.

Tides of seething death find no terrestrial purchase
and the pools remain dry.

The sterling kite suspended in sable mist,
stringent in its strumming course.

A will like wind accords it so that
winged sallies are forbidden.

And the crescent moons bear witness,
uniform in ivory veneration.

>>24435083
Yes, but not in English. I invite you to post or repost any you've written, although I can't criticize them I enjoy reading them.

My bookish friend and lover Timothy really likes this poem I wrote him. Please, enjoy.

The Island of My Desire
By Jean Jacques Dartanyn Lefandonk

Somewhere in the deepest ocean
Is the island of my desire
a sweet succor, this love potion
an ever yearning, burning fire
They claimed it was a tool of Khazarian control
To enrapture the political minded
Yet this notion I found rather droll
It was where the knot of love was binded
With me and little Timmy true
He was an ocean in and of himself
Our wedding, presided over by Talmudic Jew
a scrawny, tawny, big-nosed elf
Thank you, Jeffrey, noble soul
My heart rings out with trumpet sound
A note which I now do pen
The man-boy love, it does abound
I shall never weep again

Here's another I wrote for my Paramore Sambubu. This one speaks to me especially for I was knaivish rogue in my youth. Enjoy

Ballad of Sambubu, Foremost Among Swarthy Buttpirates
By Jean Jacques Dartanyn Lefandonk

As he sails in stormy seas
the clap of cheeks punctuates the breeze
He bends them over like 'tis his duty
For he is drunk on the rarest of booty
He does not want to return to prison
for as it always was, He wants' be jizzin'
No he shall forever sail on the waves
poking many zesty knaives
on his ark, no gentle dove
shall arrest his heart of savage love
Ever constant, till his time doth come
does he sodomize them in the bum

Heres another one by Jean Jacques Dartanyn Lefandonk

Dad Quest

A spiritual quest on which he doth embark
Not for want of gold or simple lark
But to mend the wounds dealt to his soul
He yearns to go and be made whole
His dad, a roguish, swarthy buck
A queer quadroon, devoid of luck
His quest for newports, numbered twenty
Left young Raqueesh with woes aplenty
Why did the Synagogue of Satan entice his father?
Was it because it was a bother
His lineage, noble and bold
Forged before man's hearts went cold
Shall be reclaimed by his darling boy
no talmudic trollop shall his genes alloy
His rightful place he shall take
as foremost among the chosen, Xenu doth spake
Raqueesh rises, for he has chosen
to seek his father, tills Hell's fire has frozen
The secrets to cosmology
are contained in his dad's book of Protestant Scientology
An esoteric tome ill understood
but with it, noble Raqueesh would
Take his place among the stars
as Xenu ferries him to mars
And L. Ron Hubbard did weep much
when his black gay lover said some such
bullshit like "the child supports due"
His dad said, "what are you, a filthy jew?"
and so the chosen left his gay black whore
to sail beyond the stars into the Nevermore
Yet noble Raqueesh seeks his father still
to interrogate, coax, question, and grill
him as to why he left so soon
Yet he knows tis 'cuz he's a swarthy baboon

>>24432516
The orchard is surplus,
I drink it, bitter and deep.
The cup, to be filled.
But no one else does.

I think of houris,
Full-breasted and silent,
Like the waitresses at 3 a.m. in Sonora.

"What is a shovel, if not a key?"
And I glimpsed the child,
and his child too,
not in silence,
but in the circular knowledge that returns.

They laughed,
It was a desert.

Of respect.

That night, I almost kissed you.
You handed me a paper napkin
with a drawing of a burning city.
I said nothing.
It’s hard to speak when the world is arson.
You said,
“We’ll never be this young again, Roberto.”

Camden's Song

Through a covered bridge
I see you,
through a streaky mirror
I glimpse, and love you.
A sigh sounds, blush in a powder room.

Through a pastoral scene,
I bid you “hello.”
On a linoleum floor
we take flight in a union hall.
—Give me your hand. Let’s have a ball.

Through a covered bridge
we’re shut up from a storm.
In a covered wagon I fall for a whore.
The movies we know
play on, and the Apache make war.

I’ll take mention of Rahab,
she paid a brute to pull me from a cistern
in a basket,
just to fashion me a dagger made of
clay.

Her rattling candelabra
shone umbrageous light, goading me
to loose the gate.

Through a covered bridge
I know you.
In a streak of sunshine your gold’s shown,
I smell you.

All the flowers we know, like rare, pale, peonies of jade;
tempted to despair—they pass away.
But I’ve retrieved them faithfully
before. I recognize them now—years on.

(June 2025)

what's this thread's opinion on the heroic couplet; can it be redeemed?
>>24436922
I enjoyed reading this

Born out of suffering
This little plague
Holy river come
Flowing down in me

Toiling in the depths
Stricken with dismay
I am the unrest
Burn bright in the day

So when the heart is swollen
And all the tokens given
My lord, apart we’re broken
To what end are we driven?

And all of Those that you called weak
Boils in my blood, great ceaseless peace
Befall my enemy in his own lair
And as I do, turn my cheek
To a thousand suns dripping with
Ecstasy and gold! All ripe and bare…
And as it falls down to the meek
All of man shall have their share.

>>24437300
>Those that called you weak/ Boils in my blood
Holy ESL

Time is Ciudad Juárez at dawn.
Love is extradited in chains.
Even poems die in the trunks of sedans.
Still, your kiss,
like the United States,
sharp, sanctified, and paid in counterfeit grace.

>>24433367

This is a GREAT ONE i really enjoyed the twofold imagery in 2nd and 3rd stnz, very profound and direct, rhythmically concise and pleasant to the "Ear"
Here's one of mine:
______________
"Quiet"

In lonely dove I find my peace
Soaring through the sky's damp fleece
And quiet bops of little heads
By solar sons in yellow beds
Through plumply hanging worms in threads
And willows' branched chocolate reds
Cheer birdsong brought by humid breeze
In nature's choir I find my peace.
_____


THE #$CHAN BOUQA IAM CURENTLY BEING HAH
aaaaaaaaaaa

Below, Eritrean flowers tilt
like girls who once believed in God.
Iran swings
from Qatar,
a gleaming hook in a velvet room.
Does it dream of heroin,
of Santiago at night?

bump

>>24438112
Mediocre

New sonnet of mine that I thought I’d post here, given the reception a few of the others have gotten—thanks again everyone for your comments! This one is still in an early stage, so feedback is very welcome.

>>24438112
This is quite pretty.

>>24440772
Terrible. Nigh unreadable. An anti-sonnet in pseud-verse. Stop posting

love to post
i don't give a fuck
flying fuck? might be a duck
crawling fuck? it's me when drunk
posting shit – it smells like skunk

but let's get back to where we came from
the rose of posting has edgy thorns
it's delightful, like a blossoming maid
whose heart is true, and won't be swayed

I come again, screaming my balls
an uninvited guest in these ancient halls
none to greet me, like the lord I am
hit fucking hard breaching the Hoover Dam.

My ancestors would be so proud
Of my epic castle in minecraft
But time is an impassable shroud
Alone on the sea in my raft

lol.
So I posted again, at 3:42 a.m.,
in a motel off the Pan-American.

It might have been an error.

With my 5 gallons of PCP
In a motel of terror
I'll make them all see
See their mistake, their error

>>24430890
Post em

This is not mine but I have read it many times and I enjoy it and I feel it

I know where I will wear this dagger then;
Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius:
Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong;
Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat:
Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass,
Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron,
Can be retentive to the strength of spirit;
But life, being weary of these worldly bars,
Never lacks power to dismiss itself.
If I know this, know all the world besides,
That part of tyranny that I do bear
I can shake off at pleasure.

My answer must be made. But I am arm'd,
And dangers are to me indifferent.

Could someone scan Hopkin's God's Grandeur for me? I still need a more subtle ear for telling apart when multiple stresses are stacked up together or not.

Blue-Eyed Medusa

A gaze menacing me, her eyes
In crystal blue colors, eyes
Wide open free: I'm drowning
And lost in a deep, open sea.

She's an owl, on a tree, staring
Something deep she's yearning,
But beyond her eyes, stillness.
She cries out her loneliness.

The girl has dead eyes,
Lifeless, warmless eyes.
When she stares at me,
Quiet and still, she lies

My heart is a light
that has yet to reach her
a shining dead star, a silent, sudden thunder,
and a melody unheard.

A swirling vortex of lights,
a flashing spiral galaxy,
she is a fire in my head,
burning bright and eternal

“Make them see,”
he said again.
“Make them see.”
And I did,
with the last sharp flicker
of motel static,
3:04 a.m.,
no sound,
just light and war.

The Islamic State smiled,
a VHS war flick.

>>24442760
This is close to beautiful.

>>24434231
Thank you.

>>24432108
Italics in poetry are unnecessary and obnoxious in English, otherwise this is creative.

https://youtu.be/f5zJRF4qJ7E

Out of the dark, In from the deep.
I cry to thy heart to hear.
Gather me close in thine arms tonight.
On thy lacquered breast let me lie;
Never not tender, always to dear,
Home from the world are my tears.

>>24443532
This is a Neil Young song from "Rust Never Sleeps." It's also 'too,' not 'to.'

Fed on milkweed, I did.

Outlast the thorns and hemlock trying to get home.
Dodge the slings and arrows to win your arm.
The nightshade in the mallow. The lead harpoon in the bow.
Gashes in tires won’t do nohow.
The milk skin of my lover is all honey to me,
There isn’t a bed of thicket twixt her and me.

Fed on milkweed all I see is her.
Spread mustard seed for God; I’d just done it for her.
Was “Swing-Down-Chariot,” and “Low-Down-St. Louis,”
It’s just ‘bout her.

I thank Heaven everyday for the maiden I wed.
Those pale-green eyes got in my head.
She carries lemon pound cakes in her back;
Said she’d the ‘seven-year-itch’—
And my mouth went slack.

Fed on milkweed, I did for her.

>>24428893 (OP)

A hunter stalks
Under nature's fist
Hidden judge walks
Bobcat in the mist

Don't kill it
Doesn't deserve to die
Guess I'll fill it
With trash and cry

bone splinters scattered at the bus stop
have another dose of sanitized AI slop
no germs left behind
no time to unwind
no paper in the printer
no potatoes left for winter
mom said to take care
dad said nothing rare
a ladder against my bed
the night stand painted red
all of those pretty thoughts
shrunken into wrinkly dots
maybe she could make it lighter
maybe she could wake the fighter
but she‘s not here
she made that very clear

>>24428893 (OP)
vague factory form-factor products [intellectual property of the vectoralists] glittering bright stuff flashing red LED’s on the edge of it industrial function place infrastructural low fly zone fog slow mist tall buildings with the unoccupied space syndrome qr codes in between advertisements water vapour condenses on the surface of goliath residential megastructures [How do you know that i dont know that the fish are happy? ] rusting steel gleaming metal sunsets frozen meat packaging plants profitable margins fast-food delivery drivers hygienic aseptic packaging procedures 快递外卖 factory floor ergonomics neoliberal business ontologies managerial topdown planned multi-storey building estates that reach into the low hung heavens saturated with fluorescent clouds of dense industrial throughput this modern cityscape a vernacular of mass-produced goods

>>24446567
loudspeaker announcements car horns back-alley-strewn-wiring rats scurry across wet stuff the whirring of fans in dense shadow hot-glow-red-pink-purple hanzi advertisement signage goods services convenience a panorama of cheap neon and concrete [the spaces upon which artificial light scatter breathe with emptiness ] residential windows with metal bars flat opaque tiled surfaces yellow-light-midnight-laundry street sweeper trucks red rearview lights along narrow yellow lines wheeled tarmac shadows corporate futures four-way carriageways orange indicators fluorescent-grey-green-windowed-lights security checks secular signage an endless multi-storied horizon of building blocks the air still with weight manufactured roadways that expand into tomorrow red blue purple LEDs a midnight spring the dark light a spectacle the gleam and the smell of plastic

electric pylons rolling spring thunder 大雨industrial noise metallic surface barcodes pedestrian-domestic-object-clatter multi-level carparks inwards facing silent emptiness production consumption read-receipts
taxi cab apartments for rent overcast skies clear bright automated advertisements cars building sites AMTR throughways in between haloed orange street lights white-blue-halide cold-glow shining concrete oblong shadows discrete wall-like domestic spaces on to which the light is cast upwards

flat oblique concrete faces the unfeeling expanse the big shape the modern grammar of presence grid-like bounds for the living spirit a machined structure whom’s horizon point is the night sky and tomorrow and a future towards which we inevitably fall the fanged noumena leviathan the dark one the breathing machine mind [it’s dark number of quality material profit excess value domination]


请注意 请注意 请注意 请注意 请注意 请注意
倒车倒车倒车倒车

the way the mist the fog the smog the pollution punctuates and obscures the space between glowing advertisements that adhere to the walls of superblock domestic dwellings the dark absence merely the lack of an advertisement glowing bright words floating in the night-space the bright way the shining one that tires and exhausts and pushes and motivates an mkultra thing made up of diodes and such am i the manufactured one a subject without authentic grounding a factory output a terse obscenity made up of mistakes a tension between contradictions a data point for the vectorialists to exploit

>>24446575
industrial flatbed trucks are my metronomes for the fractal change raw materials competitively devalued currency commodity supercycles a combustable benzene ring for sleeping children innocent ones dreaming of the real thing a way out of it a way towards it closure and finality a horizon of possibility perfectly actualised a reality instantiated absolute truth shining bright and never ever decaying a polypropylene harmony to redeem the zero-sum competitive struggle of daily life a genuine real thing the visio beatifica that all the advertisements promised

the actual bright tomorrow-hope a metallic piped grey structure lurching in contradiction rust for blood on overcast days it reveals the beauty of morbidity tanks of CO2 feeding tubes for the stuff like highways pass through compartmentalised floors of mismanaged nepotism i am the resounding om of meaning the structure cries makes tantamount through it’s enduringness a labouring surely a struggled overcoming no it shouts no i am a resounding inevitability the dream become real the real deal i am the horizon the only tomorrow there is i am outwards facing surfaces made of shining advertisements and squares endless repeating hollow squares ready to accommodate them the living bright things noise for the industrial form to manage tiles in a slightly different shade of dull grey like greek columns make the thing more complex in manner more noble perhaps smokestack chimneys and walls with the standard tarpaulin-regalia synthetic sheets printed with the blue sky clouds and green leafed trees and saturated rolling grass hills are something like a standardising presence to make it all the less impactful and all the more palatable an authority for your peripheral vision to defer to in the quickness of the throughway thing made up of pedestrian byways predetermined destinations and tube like funnelling roads
for the algorithmic real-stuff for the machine mind that decides the wai mai driver’s wages

:^)

For sale:
Rapist shoes,
Never worn.

My arms are tired
from gathering
They lied.
It became QR-tagged.

>>24446612
?

I always liked, the one that goes...
"the woods are lovely dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go, before I sleep"
>
and...
>
Invictus.
"Here I hang my bloody head, bludgeoned yet unbowed."
>
NOW, when I was in my late twenties? SOme guy online once posted this, and I have to go by memoro. It was signed "Darius", but I have no idea if it was his screen name and it was his original? Or, maybe someone could know it here.

"Come close little moth,
if its knowledge you seek.
I burn for the cold, the timid and the weak.
I live only to serve,
on the coldest of days.
Then rear up to consume,
in the angriest blaze.

so come close little moth,
if knowledge you would gain.
Experience ecstasy,
as you succumb to the flame."

(memory failing me, dammit, but that's... somewhat close)

The Book of Life;
Theirs came out mint.
Mine's covered in
Crayon and spit.

>>24446794
The worn and weary flee west
Rape, rapier, rapiest
Raping barefoot is the best
With shit on my chest

Do u guys think warosu would consider deleting a post with a very short poem I posted here if I asked? Do they do that?

Who waits,
who delivers,
who decays.

At the corner of Somaliland and Capital.

March gives way
to June; and
all the bitter
season of youth
Falls by blank
passage to a
sole proof: of
days wreathed in
loose threads
of ivy and
sycamore leaves,
whose soft foot
treads on
too-hard ground:

its rough Earth
the Eden of
your truth.

>>24449088
Idgi

>>24430825

Plop, 2025

It came out of my bottom
It changed the air
Silence broke by plopping
Flush
The toilet paper
Poo on butt hairs
Underwear 6 more days
It came out of my bottom

"Sunt lacrimae rerum" (1908) by Babits Mihály

Van a tárgyaknak könnyük. Érzem olykor,
hogy sírnak a szobámban nesztelen
sötétedő, sejtelmes alkonyokkor
bús lelküket kitárják meztelen.

Tán azt hiszik, nem látja most szem őket:
ki járna a sötétben eleven?
De én, szobáknak baglya, nézem őket,
örülve, hogy van, aki sír velem.

Nézem, hogy elhagyja magát az asztal,
silány terhét emelni únja már.
Az ágy, mint akit senki sem vigasztal,
gyötrelmes éjet önmegadva vár.

(Keresztény rabnő várhat így az éjre,
birván basája undok, unt kegyét.)
A vén karszék némán huzódva félre
bús daccal tölti bársonyos begyét.

Szégyenlett kínjuk fájlalják a képek,
szögekre fölfeszített vértanuk,
s mint este egyedűl maradt cselédek,
sírnak a tárgyak, bárha nincs szavuk.

Sírnak, mint néma lelkek, mint vak árvák,
süket szemek, sötétbe zárt rabok,
halottlan holtak és örökre lárvák,
léttelen lények, tompa darabok.

Set aside one side
Aside from that
"Fine people" he cried
On both sides they sat

I'm a newfag when it comes to poetry, and I'm often confused as to why the poetic metre and rhyming rules are often broken. Are there any rules or advice given as to when mix metres and when to stick to a regular convention, and when to rhyme and when not to rhyme?

>>24446567
>How do you know that i dont know that the fish are happy?
Because you are not Zhuangzi

The long grass
and cracked tarmac
rise like the dead;
behind shatterproof
Perspex and pocketed
gloves we scrub
the immaculate grain
of our hands, soiled
by other fallow beds.

Heat bleeds beneath
store bought soles,
and the already
read numbers turn
pinching skin,
licking skin,
their red dust
swirling in June's
leaded air.

We clean;
no idle task
as years grow
and pass, flashing
before our very eyes.

We feed on
each other's gossip
whilst streets caked
in paint spread
out of sight;
each looks much
like the last
come night.

Question about English prosody: Are stresses determined more by their immediate syllabic context, or an objective degree of stress?

In other words, if a line has a syllable of rather weak stress surrounded by unstressed syllables, but in another part of the same line also a stress, stronger than this weak stress, but nonetheless surrounded by two syllables of stronger stress, such that it is seen as an unstressed syllable, is it still correct to regard that weaker stress as a stress? This may seem like a ridiculous question, but I've seen a lot of people defend both scansion methods, and it seems to me there is nothing consistent about people's own ideas about scansion. Take this line:

>Of a close chair, a litter, or sedan,

I feel like it is unnatural to stress 'of' or 'a' more than 'close'. And you sometimes hear poetry speakers stress, for example, an unstressed word like 'close' more than the 'of' and 'a' that came before it, because that's just the most natural sounding. But then I don't think people would scan the line as 'close' being a stress.

>>24452985
Just read it in whatever way you think sounds best. In music everyone understands this, in ancient poetry everyone understands this. This rule autism is recent and gay.

>>24453263
The abandoning of "rule autism" is one of the reasons why English poetry has declined in recent years

>>24453385
Different traditions can establish patterns to follow, usually by refining patterns to approach what is more aesthetically pleasing over time but if it's not obvious after training your ear in that tradition there's really no point.

>>24450151
Basically just my little commentary on some recent events: an autonomous region making ripples in its effort for international recognition. That idea is then generalized to try and capture the sense of any space where the periphery and economic capital meet.

>>24453263
>rule autism is recent and gay.
>t. gabbie hanna

>>24434721
这个生活什么道理
就只是人吵跟一起
不过从哪里来了
或哪里去
每个地方在天地
是那么苦

A poem titled Centripetal Emotion in the Age of the Vacuum.
Inside was nothing.
Which is to say, it was everything.

bump

this violent storm brings a thrill
people rise like apollos red burning sun

Hot angel bursting at the seams
Self-Driving cars explode on live stream
bringing in the tanks to blow them away
blow them sky high

People woke up,
not with hands,
but with cannons,
with matches,
as if they’d read
too much poetry.

And the cannons?

Somewhere,
erasing
flow.

Flow.

Bump

How are things going? Don’t answer.
I’m afraid of the answer, It just feels strange not to ask.
Is it still communication if one side refuses to listen?
Please don’t think I don’t care. Please understand I’m just scared.

That's why I ignored you. Even though you keep showing up in my dreams, turning them into those not-quite-nightmares.
The kind where something feels off,
where something doesn’t belong and is ever haunting, getting closer.
And when I wake up, I’m relieved it wasn’t real.

Have I ever really communicated if I’ve never been honest?
But I don’t want to talk about me. This is about you.
or rather, since I don’t really want to know, about the idea of you from years ago.

How have you been? Did you stop smoking?
Has the humidity been kind to your skin?
I’m not afraid of you dying but afraid of you suffering while alive.
That might sound unkind, but that’s the way I care.
And that’s how I care about you.
Have you been eating well? Are you still working too hard?
Please remember to rest now and then.

I heard the country is drying up.
Are the insects disappearing there too? Do you miss them as much as I do?
Do you remember how I used to love pololos and bring them to you?
That’s a lie. I don’t actually remember that.
I don't remember much of it, of when things were good.

But I’ve always liked insects and I remember there were pololos.
When I was younger, there were probably many more than now.
I hope they’re still out there, flying around.
And if they’ve disappeared, that they’re just hiding.

Maybe some of them mutated into cicada-like pololos
and burrowed underground to sleep for a very, very long time.
Much longer than any cicada.
Kinda like the mysterious flowering cycles in bamboo forests.
May they all emerge one day, at the same time, and-

What I do remember is you brushing my hair.
Me sitting on the floor, between your legs,
you in that ugly chair.
But sometimes I wonder if it’s a real memory,
or just something I built from that photo of you brushing my hair.
The only one of both of us in the good times.

As you might know, there weren’t many pictures of me.
this might sound like I’m going on about myself again,
but it’s not just about me. It’s about both of us.
There weren’t many pictures because no one liked me from the start.
I've come to understand they didn’t like me *because* I was your daughter.
Or maybe I became who I am *because* I was your daughter,
and *then* they decided they didn’t like me.

Whatever the reason, it’s all ok now.
And I hope it’s ok for you too.

>>24457805
You see, I consider myself a pragmatic person (probably thanks to you).
There’s a kind of comfort, a warm numbness, in thinking that things just are.
No divine justice and no deeper reason.
Some things just happen and that's ok.
They didn’t like me. Some insects go extinct. May hair is turning white as yours did long ago.

Are you happy? That’s the scariest question.
Are you unhappy because we’re apart? Actually, maybe that’s worse.
There’s no point in saying sorry for everything, just like there’s no point in hoping the rivers aren’t dry and you forgot about me.
When I dream of you and wake up listless,
it helps to remind myself dreams are just dreams.

Did you know? when I eat rucula I always think of you.
For a while, I thought of you when I ate salmon too.
But now, it’s just the rucula. I don’t eat it as often as salmon, you see.
did you know? we’re far apart in more ways than one.
There are mountains and seas, hours and even seasons between us.
But still, no matter where I go, you’re always there.
Even if one day I eat too much rucula, you'll still be there in someone’s name.
And if not that, then you’ll be in the pololos.
And as they slowly disappear-

I was laying in the grass with a finger in my ass,
To my left relaxed a lass with a body of great mass,
Keeping secret my perversion lest I cause her some aversion,
I dug for that nutella while sipping my Estrella.
And steady was my thrust as I comforted my lust,
When arrived stranger smelling of normie danger.
Startled to my core I let out a heavy snore,
With a jerk I ripped my hole, giving pause to my hard pole.
Blood rushed out the back as it filled my dirty crack,
I even felt it near my sack as it travelled down my back.
All the people ran screaming as I couldn't help my creaming,
Yet it was worth it in the end, giving my ass a helping hand.

>>24431659
>Then I sincerely hope you fucking die
>For the crime of being me
>But on a slight delay
I liked this part. I hope your divorce goes as well as a divorce can go.

>>24434053
I really like the image of nystagmus isolating the girl in a different mysterious way as reading something only she's able to. Is the part about the floppy ears obscuring hearing intentionally connected to how nystagmus makes reading difficult? The nystagmus-reading also made me think of EMDR, what a weird thing.
I once met a programmer who had extreme nystagmus, I wonder how he's doing.

>>24434231
Your poem made me think of an OC I created in my edgy teenager years

>>24434754
It made me think of The Magnetic Fields' lyrics. No idea if it's a good poem though, but who cares? Who even gets to decide what counts as good and in 4chan of all places? Just keep writing.

>And I drifted like a day dream
>Of a falling scoop of ice cream.
I particularly liked this part

don't die overnight

ChatGPT gave my narrative poem a 9/10 :3

>>24459019
The robot is sycophantic by design, anon

Written whilst drunk, whilst now.

Eat your heart out:

Not now, not here
I had to be clear
As glass, else
The beast would
Make his Mark;

"Daddy, please stop",
the voice wasn't mine:
Teary eyed she fell
Upon him like
Rabbit to a wolf.

He howled:
"Get this fucking thing
Off me". I balked
And grabbed the knife -
It was now a fight.

Bright red flew
Across the room
And before I knew
Stained lights
Lit the dim corridor
Of my youth:
Twenty years hard time
Is no truth reckoned
To bear.

She has the scars,
And wears mens clothes
And walks about
With a different name -
And her claim to fame
Is her mother, a shame -
But what she knows
Is what I know which
Is what he knew

Which is this:

We're still here.

>>24459215
I've fed it work by others that it's rated equal or higher and I've fed it my own work that it's rated significantly lower. Not saying you're wrong but it seems safe to say there's usually some merit to its judgements.

The Calling

The call was heard by all
And we gathered at a spot
Where a great battle was fated to happen
Ten thousand men showed up for it

Battle formations were set
With rows and rows of men all shoulder to shoulder
Standing with a vigor unseen on earth
Ready to confront the dread itself

The enemy never did arrive
Instead the sky opened and a heat was felt
The smell of warm energy permeated the air
And gave way to quaking of the earth

Then we saw it, in the distance
Something invisible, only ever seen
For it's blockage of the space behind it
An unreasonable terror gripped every man

Men stood clutching their heads
Some gasped and choked on their breath
Others stared motionless at the anomaly
The sounds of the world seemed to stop

Time itself stood still for only a moment

Derangement took hold and
The men all at once became rigid
With spears in their hands,
They all turned to each other

Their eyes sunk in, turning a dull yellow
Their faces became red without blood
They dropped their shields and begun
Thrusting their spears into each other

No screams were uttered, no shouts transpired
Their wounds did not bleed
Any life left was draining ever slowly
As always, the sun shines down on the scene

Behind the lines, the castle towers fell
Women lept off of high places en masse
Sickened with the same malaise
The earth rocked again, it's cacophonic rumble

The voice of a dead God rang out:
"Putridum veneramini, non es imago dei"
They all collapsed and melted into the earth
Columbines and clover sprang out from the liquid fertilizer

The promise completed
The sun sets, only to rise again, tomorrow

>>24459340
The robot also does not have judgement

Take care,
But who does
When the world's
To blame?

Posted this in the wrong thread

Lenovo isn’t a real word
The Chinese made it up
“Le” comes from legend
“Novo” comes from Latin
Meaning new

A&W stands for Roy Allen
and Frank Wright
They merged in 1922
to sell root beer
and food.

I can’t be asked to
get up from this chair
and determine who made it
or where

I live in a hut in the middle of the desert
I am blessed beyond measure
With affordable technology
And delicious beverages

Air
Sits upon
Thy lips as
Passion stirred
Draws courage
And dares
Rest
In a gaze
Such small things
As these:

Grief wept dearly
When she found
Death by her
Name,

Sorrow to muster
From peaceful days,
Calling from
Distant lanes,

And envy,
Like pages
Scorned
Writ deep, unnamed,
Cherished by
Remembrance of breath -

Live all the world
Unto thy fame
And burn brightly
By winter nights
All hope,
For all the world
You have to gain.

Last fucking drinking I'll ever be doing for a while,
He said with a smile, like wrought pig iron;
"Why" somebody asked, as he lay languishing in some short style-
"I'm waiting for Egyptian floods to wash over me,
Because guess what, I'm in fucking denial"

>>24432005
Anon, please get out of this gutter and publish. Restricting these to a basket weaving forum is madness and borderline egotistical.

Bowie was the greatest poet of the 20th century

>>24430890
………………
…………………………… could be a lot worse, dude.

Could be so, so, so, so, so, so, SO much fucking worse. I have generational trauma over what I did and I’m surprised I’m still here.

>>24460564
INTENSE trauma I didn’t mean generational I’ve never been gggggg with words

But but butt fuck I was always like to pretend I am

>>24460544
David Bowie turned marketing into the essence of his art. All great phenomena of popular music, from Elvis Presley to the Beatles, had been, first and foremost, marketing phenomena (just like Coca Cola and Barbie before them); however, Bowie turned that into an art of its own. With Bowie the science of marketing becomes art; art and marketing become one. There were intellectuals who had proclaimed this theory in rebellious terms. Bowie was, in many ways, the heir, no matter how perverted, of Andy Warhol's pop art and of the underground culture of the 1960s. He adopted some of the most blaspheme issues and turned them upside down to make them precisely what they had been designed to fight: a commodity.
Bowie was a protagonist of his times, although a poor musician: to say that Bowie is a musician is like saying that Nero was a harp player (a fact that is technically true, but misleading). Bowie embodies the quintessence of artificial art, raises futulity to paradigm, focuses on the phenomenon rather than the content, makes irrelevant the relevant, and, thus, is the epitome of everything that went wrong with rock music.

Each element of his art is the emblem of a true artistic movement; however, the ensemble of those emblems constitutes no more than a puzzle, no matter how intriguing, of symbols, a roll of incoherent images projected against the wall at twice the speed, a dictionary of terms rather than a poem, and, in the best of hypotheses, a documentary of the cultural fads of his era.

Reading the chronicles of his times, it is clear that what caused sensation was the show, not the music. The show that Bowie set up was undoubtedly in sync with the avantgarde, as it fused theater, mime, cinema, visual art, literature and music. However, Bowie merely recycled what had been going on for years in the British underground, in particular what had been popularized by the psychedelic bands of 1967. And he turned it into a commodity: whichever way you look at his oeuvre, this is the real merit of it.

>>24460564
>>24460582
Fuck off you retarded faggot

You dreamed of me again.
Not whole, not broken,
just the way ghosts appear in mirrors at dusk.

Where nothing moved,
not time,
not reason,
just the taste of sand and sweat.

They stood in rows.

Do nothing and the thoughts return,
And all my peace begins to burn.
I try to breathe, slow and deep,
But shadows in my mind still creep.

I crave a life that's calm and slow,
Like a mild bull or tranquil sow,
But labor keeps me walking here,
Among the fog of hope and fear.

>>24460938
Average /r9k/ anon

>>24462459
robots don't have jobs howeverbeit

Sprawled on the floor, a Friday night blur,
my gaze drifts to neon below.
Cars hiss on wet streets, the scent of rain
drifts in from the open window again.

In the deserted lot, one car bathed in streetlamp glow,
above, a single star pierced the inky sky.
Lost in the gloomy obscurity of space,
like one black bird perched on a lonely wire

bump

Eulogy for a weeb

His noble hikki goal
To consume all things moe
Now lays withered and forgotten
At the bottom of his casket rotten

Soft summer rains
Lull his soul to rest
Along with dear old friends
Who come to his grave
And brave the pain
To tell him which girl they think is best

>>24462548
Gorgeous. Best poem I've read on 4chan. Got a substack?

>>24459830
I still like your poem

>>24464149
I still thank you, I try to write one every day. Here's mine from today.

Playdough cookies sound retarded
But when I tell you that they represent the most important period of my life
Perhaps you’d start caring.

Less than five old
The woman who raised me and I would board the local county bus and go
to our Giant Eagle.

In the way back
past the fresh Pennsylvanian produce and beyond the deli’s mysteries
were the Playdough Cookies.

In our Giant Eagle
there was an unspoken rule that any child was allowed one big cookie
From the bakery selection.

It was always perfect
A big, beautiful cookie made of any kind of colors-sharp cyan, soft crimson
All just for you.

As the years went
Management adopted a system involving a “cookie card” to keep folks honest
I was old then

It was always perfect
Sometimes I wonder if looking back we really did have a better world
or if I’m cold.

I try to just take one memory or feeling a day and make it into a poem.

>>24464045
i do hope this is sarcasm, but the words are a boost to my ego nonetheless, so thanks regardless.
even if i had one, i'd feel like a chump sharing any part of my real identity with an anonymous forum.

A treaty can still bleed.
His hard drive was full of drafts,
each titled Episode One.

The streets hiss with ghosts.
sprawled beneath a tree,
filing reports on each night spent sprawled on cold tile.

>>24464714
not sarcasm at all. fair enough, post some more poems?

From the humming in the broken harpē.

I walk with them.
With my ghosts. With my rage.
I plant doves in the ashes.

Still.
Still, I hope.
I still hope.

>>24465354
This one is a cut-up of sorts from a Descartes quote. The same with the last one.
I don’t feel quite right calling them cut-ups, because I take great liberties in cutting out certain letters to make a new word. But, y’know. It’s a fun exercise.
I also try to craft some sort of narrative in these. The narrators aren’t myself, they’re some strung out someone on an opium binge, or something.

grilled cheese and mushrooms nigga
I fasted till the evening nigga
now I eat like a king nigga
still being that sneed nigga
still praising the lord nigga
he raised me from the bog nigga
a natural man no more nigga
i'm the magic sneed of the before nigga
i'm in the mammoth mansion
it's autism pride day dimension
June 18 check it yourself lil' nigga
only four days are left nigga
to churn the chungus in flesh nigga
paid in aether not cash nigga
bought an expansion nigga
my brain doesn't function nigga
within the conjunction nigga
like stars and planets colliding nigga
the heart they ignite nigga
the head out the dark nigga
it speaks beyond words nigga
through auguric birds nigga
read signs in manga nigga
brought presents -- santa nigga
deep dungeon mana digger
minecrafting in a litter
I'm climbing peaks they glitter
no fool's gold is her clitor
is life or not -- not fitting
still I am never quitting
I came to be commiting
the basedest shit -- outshitting.

do nothing or do even less
as long as you are feeling blessed
by none but the Holy Ghost
continue to grow and to post!

and every submitted verse
will be set as a living brick
then finally these hallowed halls
will find paths to an ancient creek

its root – oh, how deep it is!
deeper than basement – nay!
it’s deeper than Atlant’is...
oh, pray you get to da wae

"who’s there?" an echo fell
on paths still damp with tears.
I know there’s a path outta hell
when the mist of oblivion clears.

>>24466152
this one is great too. i thought you might have cut up the first one.

>>24466931
Thank you friend. I’m mainly a prose writer, poetry/cut-up poetry like this is more like a fun treat for me to do. So to receive praise for something I do for fun, it means something warm to my soul.
This one was my first one, and isn’t very good, save I think for the line about the tv.

bump