Excerpts From Frownland's Pocket of Bull****
 

I've been keeping a poetry journal lately, and I thought I might share a few of the pages and see what y'all think. These are all untitled as they're usually written right before I'm about to fall asleep or in some other form of altered state. Well then.


And another, why not?

Wow, I really enjoyed that. I am impressed with your extensive vocabularly, that's something I've always wanted to improve on. I am about to type up a whole book worth of poetry I wrote from 14-20, I'd really like to get it published one day, even if no one reads it.

Thanks!

Nice job man!!

On a very serious note, the quintessential quote has a hint in central to devote...to. You'll find that breaking teeth on asphalt attracts making treats there on the sphalt alterics intaking meats where upon a malt inquisites within making treats and seats. Somehow I'll find my way to the moon. Someday I will figure out how to let it go. I really don't think that I need to know. It's hard at points and sometimes the numbers don't line up, but it really makes me think about things that are there and just won't stop. And silence is a factor of an uninformed voter's regret, and within that blasphemous net, you hear a barking dog, a throating frog log in her thing's dog's massage in mysogynist flaws with llamas on frogs. Dripping sink faucet signs to long echoes of osteriphineces. Alibaster among us, stop this taking these fungus we're lost! We can't be without exhaust and frost upon my tongue singes the folds of my mind and IRONS THEM O:UT!!!! I've gone inSanE! I can't hold ON to these Words any longer, these voCaLS LONG lost. I've gone off into the other dimension, I think how at times I've been too far gone, the exhaust in my lost cause of a facade is blossoming. The other DIRECTION. You're not even throat singing anymore. Hard beats, typing a letter to dear grandmother. Unleash the masquerade assage to barage the bastille always lined with the moon in teal and we see that the steely knight handles are real in teir surreal appeal to reveal all of the meals in the bastille where there is only cereal. Explosions in hardcore breakthrough omniscient throuihg. I've been gone for quite a while, helly Danny. It;s only the days where I find my surface in the oxygen of the sky. And my dog Skye won't really say "hi." unless you come by like "hey tis guy wants to come by, is that cool?" and Skye's like "yeah, that's fine I guess." And when you get to my place she will be escited. Like there's a treat for her inside of it. Every time she walks into another room, she sees her groom to another bafoom. But those days are over, my grandmother won't come over. I'm a little too far on to the thought of a short wind end sent ants.

I had a lot of extra time at work today since we were moving, so I wrote out a little piece that I've since expanded on during my wait time on my train ride home. I like this one a lot and I think I might be able to expand it even more.

Of off colour fantasies of unchecked reasons for these findings in a powerful and eyebrowed clown stare. Her eyes, the shade of a soothing vomit that escapes convulsion on its way out. Lips like a cherry, pop the firework and let it fold out after you stare off into the distance. A thousand yard stare to caress breasts like the feeble afterlife of a decomposed abortion. Her hair is the blond of rapist desires and teh skin below is as soft as the final kiss from the bringer to the victim, violence's daughter, the end result. A pair of legs that tuck finely away in case one needs extra space. Trunks of cars, valleys and fields of a mind throttled by discordant fantasies of the time before as the spores of the mushroom grow and the pores of what's dead rots and that shimmer of temptation atop, blonde, grows.

They made me sit in chairs and rows, and the days upon where her beauty arises I shall shed a work worthy tear of thrice forgotten, I will go back and put flowers on her coffin. It's a love I can't know, a dream I can't be seen in.

Further than you may have gone before, a place that I will not yet move to ignore, and lastly, as I fall on unwanted proofs and shade my way under the table. The shadows line in stripes and the king lays hold for none. I've had my stay in the padded jungle, I'm lost as to the reason.

After the fact my age will have shown me what my youth was like as I watch it drain from my body, years in time will leave me with skin stuck on liquid bones. My days will be gone, but I will remember...

The days of that dark December will remind me of her small eyes, her final stares, her final cries.

Perfumed to the sleeve, the pink eye waterfall flows from the levy blow.
Sappy cloth betwixt the leader, pointing both ways.
Rosie face degenerates cha cha.
Mardi Gras procession through quaking hills;
Dam water reeks of caviar.
Banshee's absence soon following feast of pudding, no spoon.

The cherubim spreads its sticky webbed wings
Casting shadows on the sailing crew.
But the sun was not behind it;
Darkness leaped forward, blinded.
A flaky blemish scraped off
Into pools of paralyzed swimmers.
Fire leaked or seeped, rather,
and it was a swollen tungsten bulb that broke the bell.
Winter made its presence known,
All that wasn’t burning singed cold.
The heat moved ahead quickly to regress and again.
Hysteria invokes the electric dance
A stark glaze, the eyes overcast.
The rain arcs the rainbow’s path splash.

Not bad at all. Sounds a bit like Van Dy.ke Parks. Surf's Up in particular.

I think that's both spot on and a compliment of the highest order. I think this may have a bit of a darker bent; though Surf's Up was a somber song, this seems a bit more desolate.