OK, so, if you're here, you can help me. I have posted the same poem with two different endings. Mind leaving a comment and telling me which formatting decision you agree with, or if there's another more graceful route out of this poem? Thanks!
shadow man parks his
mars-red benz, looking
fresh, salivating at
my best friends.
so we start bangin' our
sticks and stones
on the trees and roads,
songs singin' praise
of the snake-skin
smile of the shiny-goat-man
then prada frown rolls the
window down, lights a
smoke, sticks around,
and we stand our ground
& he starts making promises.
& we start thinking less of him.
& he starts up his car and
pistons pump and he is
thrusting, oh,
"i've been watching you
hatch, dear friends, you,
vigorous-claw and leather
walls, you know what's
good. i smell maple
bacon cookin', i can taste
all that sweet fat. so
you boys call me up
when you are
done fuckin' around.
i will fly you
outta this one-horse
town - on my jet plane."
he's got that jet plane!
i always wanted to
fly across the world on
my very own jet plane
in a real-gone-haze
those over-thing days
five young men on
a shadow island; but
none of them ever
did sit down and get
through lord of the flies
shadow man stops at
the video store on
his way back home to
his old bat-cave,
but they did not have
the ones with expensive
cars, or the ones with
silver girls girls
being fucked
righteously
ruthlessly
and then the white-hot explosions
no, the clerk said,
we are all cleaned out
of the movies that explode
all he could find were
these arduous, trite indies
where the underdog gets the girl,
where the big guy gets what's coming,
where nothing blows to smoldering smithereens,
where his worst karmanightmares play loud on his sound system
and his high-definition TV,
you know, the altar at which
he learned
everything
he knows
___
shadow man parks his
mars-red benz, looking
fresh, salivating at
my best friends.
so we start bangin' our
sticks and stones
on the trees and roads,
songs singin' praise
of the snake-skin
smile of the shiny-goat-man
then prada frown rolls the
window down, lights a
smoke, sticks around,
and we stand our ground
& he starts making promises.
& we start thinking less of him.
& he starts up his car and
pistons pump and he is
thrusting, oh,
"i've been watching you
hatch, dear friends, you,
vigorous-claw and leather
walls, you know what's
good. i smell maple
bacon cookin', i can taste
all that sweet fat. so
you boys call me up
when you are
done fuckin' around.
i will fly you
outta this one-horse
town - on my jet plane."
he's got that jet plane!
i always wanted to
fly across the world on
my very own jet plane
in a real-gone-haze
those over-thing days
five young men on
a shadow island; but
none of them ever
did sit down and get
through lord of the flies
shadow man stops at
the video store on
his way back home to
his old bat-cave,
but they did not have
the ones with expensive
cars, or the ones with
silver girls girls
being fucked
righteously
ruthlessly
and then the white-hot explosions
no, the clerk said,
we are all cleaned out
of the movies that explode
all he could find were
these arduous, trite indies
where the underdog gets the girl,
where the big guy gets what's coming,
where nothing blows to smoldering smithereens,
where his worst karmanightmares play loud on his sound system
and his high-definition TV; you know, the altar at which he learned everything he knows.
(^^^ That last line is meant to only be one line, but it wraps because I am too stupid to format my blog correctly. D'oh! Anyway, the line length is supposed to crescendo at the poem's conclusion. In contrast, the first version tapers off after the four lines beginning with "where," and I'm not sure which effect is better!)
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Saturday, February 12, 2011
as-of-yet-untitled
the shrink must've said,
"affirm your self
with this anger,"
an invitation into
that suburban sense
of inflated seen-it-all
with nuclear assertiveness:
know i'm in the right
seated at the left
hand of green,
unnatural virtue.
he sides with her,
dispersing wisdom
with the frantic
act-first impulse of
a caffeine headache.
his plan for the future:
ramshackle am-dream
control-freaking, a
recovering red bull
addict
shaking,
saving money,
wasting love
on M-m_M-Marlboro
Menthols, and,
making sure
that we know
he's always right
we're always left.
"affirm your self
with this anger,"
an invitation into
that suburban sense
of inflated seen-it-all
with nuclear assertiveness:
know i'm in the right
seated at the left
hand of green,
unnatural virtue.
he sides with her,
dispersing wisdom
with the frantic
act-first impulse of
a caffeine headache.
his plan for the future:
ramshackle am-dream
control-freaking, a
recovering red bull
addict
shaking,
saving money,
wasting love
on M-m_M-Marlboro
Menthols, and,
making sure
that we know
he's always right
we're always left.
introduction
Hello. For now, I am doing my best to hide this blog from the living world. If you're reading this, that means you've found me. Welcome. I'd love to know how you arrived here if I didn't send you myself, so, please leave a comment below!
This is a blog where I will be posting the things I write. Technically, the work is "on display," as it is all published... I do this to motivate myself to revise it. In the back of my mind, I'll be thinking, "Goodness! What if some road-scholar shows up and thinks I'm a talentless hack with no future?" and by extension, I will obsess over everything I post. This can only be good for me in the long-run.
Primarily, I'm a lyricist, and I turn musical tricks with four of my good friends here in northern New Jersey. By day, I am a student, and there's something about sobriety and sunshine and thinking -- I don't know; all of a sudden I think it's this great big idea to try and become the next great American poet. "Wow," you're thinking, "good luck, kid." I appreciate that. Aside from writing poems, I've played around with vignettes, formless anecdotal nonsense, and longer short-stories that are mostly observe-and-tell (I do like the Beats, it's not just a namesake). I'll post it all here, if so inclined.
I hope that, if you take the time to read what's posted here, you'll A) enjoy it, and B) not be bashful about replying with thoughts, suggestions, non sequiturs, flames, or funny cat pictures. Also, send money.
Love,
D
This is a blog where I will be posting the things I write. Technically, the work is "on display," as it is all published... I do this to motivate myself to revise it. In the back of my mind, I'll be thinking, "Goodness! What if some road-scholar shows up and thinks I'm a talentless hack with no future?" and by extension, I will obsess over everything I post. This can only be good for me in the long-run.
Primarily, I'm a lyricist, and I turn musical tricks with four of my good friends here in northern New Jersey. By day, I am a student, and there's something about sobriety and sunshine and thinking -- I don't know; all of a sudden I think it's this great big idea to try and become the next great American poet. "Wow," you're thinking, "good luck, kid." I appreciate that. Aside from writing poems, I've played around with vignettes, formless anecdotal nonsense, and longer short-stories that are mostly observe-and-tell (I do like the Beats, it's not just a namesake). I'll post it all here, if so inclined.
I hope that, if you take the time to read what's posted here, you'll A) enjoy it, and B) not be bashful about replying with thoughts, suggestions, non sequiturs, flames, or funny cat pictures. Also, send money.
Love,
D
that little piece which allows you to dream
what would i
ever do with
all of you
anyway?
all try-hard lace,
perfume taste
unpleasant when
too close. away
grows a one--
bass and middle
notes subtle, single
floral, unpretentious,
a mood set and
no, not nauseous --
but, it's
urgent we keep
bare, sweating
summer backs
'gainst the
will of wisdom
we still lack.
at home festers
a growing mass
of frankie's old
rat pack fury.
shoulder-chip bags
a red salvia trip
from which
i gathered nothing,
utterly central in
her unfulfilling,
always-judging,
maddening--
cat-converter,
fuel injector,
black mold
in the tub again.
indebted,
inactive,
she thinks of
others' money.
ever do with
all of you
anyway?
all try-hard lace,
perfume taste
unpleasant when
too close. away
grows a one--
bass and middle
notes subtle, single
floral, unpretentious,
a mood set and
no, not nauseous --
but, it's
urgent we keep
bare, sweating
summer backs
'gainst the
will of wisdom
we still lack.
at home festers
a growing mass
of frankie's old
rat pack fury.
shoulder-chip bags
a red salvia trip
from which
i gathered nothing,
utterly central in
her unfulfilling,
always-judging,
maddening--
cat-converter,
fuel injector,
black mold
in the tub again.
indebted,
inactive,
she thinks of
others' money.
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