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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.
From an artistic point of view, Gazing as the table leg shadows waste across the tile floor Is better than watching them click from horizon to the wall. I'm kind of in the practice of being in places for too long. At least my robe when bathed in gold keeps me warm in my armchair, teetering. Everyone sings in harmony, just at different times. If I was conducting, they'd sound fine. Watching the newer ones dribble their basketballs through foggy windows, I stay inside, the outdoors cause me to speak beyond my peripherals. Earmuffs in a capsule, Now I can't hear anyone singing. This jacket is nice, I was cold before they had me put it on. Ever since I chipped my tooth on the dentist's arm, I've been safe here. I can't hold onto the vocals anymore. These fingers lost grasp long ago. Mental illness is all that I have left. And another, why not? This land stands as a modicum for intravenous limetime retrograde. Sporatic live in a sense, Deed of loose club grime. In the country, but I speaketh not the language. Nothing but armchair trumpets, Ceiling fans attached to the walls. Fun, demented, now that you mentor it. Suppose it is a story? He'll land where he finds hell is deep. Remiss in your sigh, Lint oct shin, Dextrimental education. Tell him century, mighty ear homes. Interspersed with extensive loosely trapped papers that fultter in the wind. But here flies. Harmonicum, look at the reverberational reaction To the induced sization with one. Over dispose her, Read the quintessential hint in central. Face in the clouds shrouds, oligarchy. Paramount restraint. Vanguard of serene pulsation. Green nation. |
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.
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Nice job man!!
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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.
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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.
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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.
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Thanks guys, just looked up the lyrics to Surf's Up (I only really listen to Pet Sounds and SMILE these days) and can see that it's a great complement.
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As you probably know, Van **** Parks wrote most of the SMiLE lyrics.
You should try setting those to some sort of music. |
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That's not true. Bob's voice was personal so it wasn't ****ty. He has a personality.
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I don't think it's supposed to be an insult as in the Bob is bad because he has a bad voice, just that he's not a traditionally good singer. Lots of Rock musicians don't really. Elliott Smith wasn't that great a singer, especially for some of the notes he'd try and hit, Connor Oberst is just the worst (but I can't stand his music either), and J Mascis of Dinosaur Jr. just kinda mumbles pretty, but they all have fans.
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Don't get me wrong, I like Bob Dylan. Was just saying that if you have good music, your voice takes the back seat.
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Shark infested water glass teetering
On the third arm of my chair. The stained glass painting smirked and pondered the sight. Half my skin mask Glowing, flickering vermillion in rays of fire. Cloth-bound bag of bones in the living room Hourglass in the kitchen In the murky deposit, the sand molds. Algae flourish on the fountain of youth Suffocated by immobility it pushes back inward. Knotted and thick the algae forms vines Too twisted and tangled to grow out. Licking the glass they long for shatter Or timber. Feasts ceased and water does not fill the void. A tumble, a splash a Kraken of sharks in my lap. Licking their teeth writhing on the floor. Biting their tongues in asphyxiation. Whipping tails and clenching jaws subsides Sharkcorpse infested carpet Below my gaze, doubling A cloth beneath the sharks. Shark remains infested furnace Chimney infested smoke. |
The moon leaked a golden crescent glow.
The sun blotted out against the sky Fiery iris, blinded eye. In the darkest place with the light seeping in.. .But withstanding the left-centred calligraphy portrait Of saints and those within the moral realms of hollow moon winds. Beyond the point of finding place in the daisies Among the light of the caprices amid the solemn pharoah bodies abound. Plight blighted candles saturate Among those where the eccentric flick Sticker. Shallow flesh rot away; falling. Often a fallacy but fate rate rises high In times of life or death envy. If only beyond tincture tinted feathers of the balded eagle To only the beast who passed and pluckeed. But to recycle styles of the repeated bile Smile below the flaring Of no Australia and to under the symptoms place. If to see the fouled and crippled fowl To decree emblematic seedlings of the mingled Tingling in the summer waves of taller Recreational bereave Ready for pollockian dementia politician piece of art science of painters Faded within the pluralist sights of landmark Marxian plateaus. Duplicity of the mixed entry harmonite spheres Years and derilient infested peers of the insider who once Disappears! Have you heard the myth of the backwards facet? To the absorbed misanthrope It all will push to a southern plush hammer. Fowled in beastly manner The dilemma of frownland proxy within a smiling manor. Planner of disintegrant banner within the Perplexities of banner within the June Prism while we suspect some Spoonerism Mister prune is them to limp Spill plush whale to well. And the beatless with their attempts at finding the Eternal set of monstrosity. Attempt the cast of pitch the beat asunder. Almost in placid silence Anticipated flocks crops released Beached inland and the land animals Push for out same Knee over the polished brush and hanging for lucid dreams in eve. Can't be from those horror shows before her of horror: Of eclectic persuasions though the plight Toward blended stem clams meal for the surreal appeal. As if the insipid thoughts and insidious language Were to enrage. Bewilder yet under an understanding outrage repulsive hallow gaze Stared directly past gallows for days strange as if at a blaze beneath the eyes. Anuls Odysseus of tableau As tough deposits delay. Olive base hollow case Of mind and of place. Push with the foreseen Or forced singe. With engine ending in twin meet. There are places where The night owl flies over the sign reading YIELD But you nonetheless run through the sign Nobody's home in the summer No bodies in car bodies Travelling somewhere where He, who swears, says, and declares that thru traffic does not stop Planes flying through where the bridge meets the volatile nimbus. Yet the grass leaned its darker green edges to the river. Plush endocrine sin sifts through my spine Gullet rescinds the vulgar pork rind. Hissing to spill the path of despair hunger line Clothing repair if to spare the air of great flair in there. Ends here, sphere, sends peers Spears reaps rapid shears. Enter the hillbound realm of the end is near. |
I opened up my typewriter (it's a travel typewriter in a case) yesterday and found this poem I wrote when I was drunk (probably, that's usually the case when I don't remember things). Here 'tis, it's punctuationless for now but I'm likely to add some in later. Or not if I use them for lyrics.
At seventeen past the hour Distressed and restlessly polute This institution asearch for restitution Arresting Jack's pillow sack Liberation for liberals and homeless sex criminals A sea shanty on the windowside Called out corporated gallywander you're considered Inspecial Critical point at fault Disappointed yet not anointed on the altar Sad sack of shall he wagger Suggests lather or rather plaster the attacker |
Why don't you tune your guitar
Body hums and split second reviews. Back bends and cart wheel stands Hell bent in an epoxy facemask. Water trickles down a slender wrinkling cheek ...Murmurs heard just above Rafters and wood screws. The guitar entuned echoes, Rolling across overtonic fields the pitches warble. Pitch's warble rattles a chain And spinning ceiling fans Weren't listened from but understood. A chirp saddles a brazen glaze A haze covered spotlights A cross eyed glassy gaze Crossword puzzling grave answers Words splatter the page Ink lines whither, fade. |
So I found a notebook that I bought when I was really drunk on Saturday. I wrote a nice little story. Hope you enjoy.
Plums struck the thin veneer of the watershed roof tiles. Hissing as they splash and trickle; feeling the radiator as it fusses and hisses. The rooftop erodes in the omnipresent drizzle. Under, above, and in from the sides they flew, harsh droplets that would kiss the shingling tile. Flaking away piece by piece. Hard sands struck wood panels lay inside indoors once before, but sands were unionized into puddles of mud in the late Winter storm. Struck by the dilemma of fall's plum drizzle, rotting away and oozing down the gutter. Flooded with water, streams sputter from the deposit below. Sands before leapt from the roads. Left milky hazes as wind dashed, making housesides wind tunnels. A water floods the eye, wheeled outside for a moment's time. Usually sunlight radiates, warms his bones but the evil mistress of the clouds bore upon him. Clouds, rumbling, bear waste to shake loose. The water runs down his cheek. Reeled back inside, trails from his chair behind him stained the floor. Clear, cold trails. Missing the last series of mainstay artistry in the winter's reflection below the mirror glass windows.Drying streams lines his cheeks. Immobilized. Eyes distorted from the watered lens, he glimpses forward. Finds behind counters of medicine parlors, birthed in age, licking its lips, pangs of hunger throttle the hourglass figure frame. Finds behind the eyes a more acceptable brand of insanity. Finding which direction to gaze, lost again through the misty haze. Armchair leaning across the coffee table. Tongue and lip dictate letters and shape of a sense, but senseless ramblings take the floor. Numbing prick in arm, gazing double sighted as holes spreckle the ceiling. Freckles flock around the nose, hiding reverberations of shouts, moans. Groaning once before the final bell rings. Alone in silence, radiator sings. Darkness hiding him away from the cold. Streams on cheeks, hard lines. |
I wrote that story in outer space.
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Do you like William Gibson? Your story kind of reminded me of his style of writing.
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Do you guys like esoteric vignettes?
Easing into his chair, he leaned in towards the window and exhaled gradually. The fan blew his breath into the outdoors. “It's cold outside,” he thinks to himself, leaning in ever so slightly. He gazes deeply into the screen that gave him a sense of safety from the world outside of him—a separation from his dominion and that of the world's. “The people outside, I can hear them talking. I can hear them muttering to each other about me. All with differing motives.” Can they hear me? He rescinds to his inner speaking abilities to voice his thoughts from then on. We oblige the reader to do the same and please stop reading aloud, as our character still does not want his thoughts to be heard. Thinking aloud is a great way to give yourself out in a situation like this. Is that them, in the car? He returns to his chair on the other side of his room, hoping that it would make his thoughts personal. He could mutter to himself at length over here. Screens may be one shield but distance feels a far more comforting one to him. He understood why they would be out there, but he's not sure if it concerns him. He weakly rises to sit in his chair by the screen. The distance may not be necessary. He faces outward into the street through the screen and exhales gradually. |
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