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| Wednesday, June 10th, 2009 | 11:46 pm
[tamarabryant]
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Poetry and Prose by Tamara Amanda Bryant
My first book, "Stumbling and Mumbling", has been published and is up for sale! It is a book with my poetry and prose. The writing in this book covers issues like domestic violence, love, death, mourning, revenge, suicide, addictions, growing up, and finding oneself. I am selling it for only $7.99! If you are interested in ordering a copy, click below:  | | Saturday, June 6th, 2009 | 11:23 pm
[infin8]
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Luna's Attic
Midnight Sun Of the Obsidian Sky Wanderlust, wonder Of the Starry Night God of distant, Alone in the night Organic decay, igniting compositions of astralgia Alone, burning With a touch of fire Will Bring forth, Natural disasters Rain drop of fantasy Alone, shining In darkness, in woe Of Abysmal, surrender Submission of the unknown Morbid, searing Cold and frozen One thousand eyes Staring back Empty and sullen Conscience of cosmic Bewildered In awe, Of the midnight son Blazing in the whirlwind Cold, As ice Dense Of the galaxy Light of pure black In dark ecstasy | | Wednesday, June 3rd, 2009 | 12:08 am
[tristissima]
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| | Wednesday, February 25th, 2009 | 1:46 am
[chiquita__]
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untitled
internally colonized by a mans touch its because i care so much verbalizing my feelings inside i'm too much for his eyes so i close myself push whats in front of me aside fear can only win in this game of lovers and friends will i take the leap or run away till my legs grow weak like an animal i hide in my cave shadowed by the day when the night falls i await my calling only to be stalled only to be mauled you've ripped me from head to toe and I am the lowest of the low because I couldn't guard my heart and i knew it from the start but i was so wrapped up in lust that your lips, your touch was a must and I'm here wounded like an animal vulnerable because my body is weak your teeth tore my skin deep i'm open ready for something more | | Tuesday, February 24th, 2009 | 10:19 am
[nakedstage]
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poet
Real emotions have died Tuesdays rule the world And their not real fat anymore So New Orleans rebuilt for God knows why And days pass And people die And we walk around like Days and nights and lives Of our own living dead. Just gives me reason to rant And ramble on Like the post drugged out Ozzie Osborn And nothing I say Makes any damn sense But somehow you think Maybe this one actually gets it. No young grasshopper I'm just a poet Not an enlightened pill popper I can't tell you Red or green Which pill to drink Just journey with me To the dark and solemn brink Of real and healthy thinking. Then take the plunge Into beat filled Rhyme and time oriented Beyond Where the world stops mattering Pitter pattering of little minds sing in time As the whole world sings out in One voice and Mind I am poet And nothing else is worth a damn. | | Tuesday, February 17th, 2009 | 1:30 pm
[mysteryal]
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Space Design...
Nostalgia... seagulls crying in the mist Current Mood: http://srbn00000.narod.ru/0902162250.jpgCurrent Music: http://files.realmusic.ru/download/532451/deljesu_-_eduard_artemev._meditaciya_stalkera.mp3 | | Friday, February 6th, 2009 | 5:23 pm
[mrsnoggle]
 |
wordcore dvd
Jolie N. "The Last Word" DVD
spoken word/wordcore dvd!
i made videos for a few of my spoken word pieces for youtube so i decided to put together some more & put them on dvd! also contains a few zine reading videos.
if you want a preview go here:
http://youtube.com/jolienoggle
this dvd contains 13 spoken word videos
& 7 zine reading videos!!
over an hour of wordcore fun!!! :D
(it's about 75 minutes)
BUY IT HERE!!!
| | Saturday, January 31st, 2009 | 11:28 pm
[willterrytragic]
 |
situational dyslexia
It happens before I know that it is here. This occurs to me in a certain predestined order. When this confusion begins, it becomes apparent to me that there is a cigarette in my lips. As I am lighting it I decide that now would be a good time to smoke, because I’m feeling antsy. Also here I become aware that my shirt sleeve was on fire. I bought this shirt from a thrift store but when I paid for it the clerk informed that he just notified the police. He politely explained that I stole this shirt a week ago and showing up now to pay for it was a confirmation of my certain criminality. I felt a bit confused. The doctor who explained Motivational Mnemonic Dyslexia to me seemed to have the answers to my questions before I asked them. I wondered if he had situational foresight. He said:” Yes, you might set certain events in motion before the motive and reason are apparent to you. Things may surprise you. Crisis may arise in ways you are not able to predict. For instance, you may decide to come to a doctor’s office only to find out after your real purpose for the visit. You may also engage in activities that you don’t fully remember. It is a sub conscious method of your mind to protect you from emotional harm” All this was a bit alarming, because I knew then that I had certain questions as to what this condition would do to me. What the effects would be. His precognitive abilities seemed to mimic my own dysfunction. He could see well into what was about to happen. Where as with me, things would happen and I would only know afterwards why I had done them. HE was my inverse. It was in this memory that I saw the small flame on my cotton sleeves crawling up my arms, my shoulder burned a bit, yet I knew this fire had a purpose. First of all, it lit my cigarette. It was a few moments later that I noticed that I was on the telephone. A static charge of information was coming to me through the circular earpiece, it was a girl. She was telling me that she would like to see come over. “Can I stay with you tonight? I’m alone here”. I replied, “I already feel guilty. The resentment and emptiness are surely already filling in you. Would you like to meet me at the coffee store so we can end this promptly? You are dumping me right?” She informed that she intended to come over. The flames were now climbing up to my neck level, so naturally I eased my appendage over to the candle that some one had set out next to my bed. It lit miraculously and the orange ember glowed like a pixie in my dark room. I dumped my cup of coffee on my arm and it was cold. The flames receded on my arms and I felt relief. If she is coming over I decided I need to be ready. I immediately took off my clothes. Standing there in my room disrobed, I began to recite to myself, “This will be over before it begins.” That was a comforting thought. It became apparent to me that she was already gone and I missed her for leaving so early. The wax from the yellow candle began running onto the paper beneath it on my side table. I stood entranced by the miniature ember effect of the minor fire contained safely in my room. A group of headlights began dancing the illumine iridescent foxtrot in the window bars outside. A loud explosion sound filters through the walls and I see a fragment of tire hit the glass between the outdoors and me. An angry neighbor is pulling out a piece of wood with a nail in it from his car tire. Someone had put it beneath his car to thwart him for some reason. The eyelike lamps of the halogen traffic passed me by at a horizontal level. Always parallel to the ground. My neighbor trips over a fire extinguisher in his lawn as he is screaming expletives into the lithosphere. I wondered who would do such a thing. The fire exinguisher that he tripped upon rolls out into the street and lays in the yellow lines in the pavement. The red exterior of the canister blends with the transportational direction indicators. The neighbors’ loud words roll in between the street and the puncture wounds on the Michelin. I began to notice the fear then. Doctor: “If you find yourself in a confusing dilemma that you don’t quite grasp, call me at this number. Ill be brushing my teeth when you call” It’s a bit alarming to be standing in the doorway to your house naked holding an empty cup of coffee and a once lit cigarette. I am dressed when I hear something fall in my room. By examining the candle I can see that someone cut in the middle with a razor blade at one point therefore when the candle burned to a certain length it would topple over heavy with its own gravitational pull, falling into the sheet of oily paper underneath which caught fire immediately I guess. A dial tone is ringing in my ears as a doctor is explaining to me that I should, “ have extinguished the fire before It began.” I was angry before I spoke with him. Curtains in my room are catching fire. Ceilings in my room are becoming blackened. They began to blend into the overhead of sky as I am running out to my neighbor. He is still yelling into the nightly abyss. I ask him quickly for his fire extinguisher but as it turns out someone set up a nail beneath his tire and then subsequently he tripped over the extinguisher. It sits in the middle of the road. Grey smoke is billowing out of my house, as car lights swerve around me like polar similar magnets, pushing away from each other. The sounds of engines truggling to avoid contact with my skin are like a mechanistic roar. Yellow lights are flashing all around my eyes and spinning out as a Camry with a street post to my right. I’m grasping the extinguisher with one hand as another fire looms in the Camry now. A decision has to be made. My room is on fire, the car is on fire, and this doctor is still in my ears telling me, “there is no situation that will arise that you cannot ultimately handle. I think, actually I know that you will be just fine. The abrasions your arm will heal well.” “I know doctor”. I say “but which fire should I put out?” He tells me, “You’ve already decided.” Running over to the house I pull back the trigger a bit distraught and despondent at the fact that I would rather save my house than a dying person on fire. The pin ricochets silver against the door as I pull the handle expecting a white puff of fire killing material to stream out instantly like some chemical angel. But it’s empty. Someone emptied it before hand. That’s why it was in my neighbors yard I guess. The structure is fully engulfed at this point. Allowing it to burn to the foundation is probably a good idea. A bus is stopping across the street and two figures get out. It’s my doctor and it is her walking slowly and almost in unison. He begins applying some cream to my burned shoulder as she, I noticed her then really, noticed how attractive she is, as she is asking my why I would do such a thing. Set fire to my house? Decide to save it before a human life? I couldn’t answer then but the doctor paused before telling her “Clearly he feared speaking to you and he set in motion a series of events to avoid your arrival and interaction. Some primal fear pushed him into acting without the foresight of knowing why it was being done. He has Motivational Mnemonic Dyslexia” I knew then that an innate but ever-present fear of this woman, this doctor, and fire. It seemed to that while I had them all there, it would be a good time to explain to them my plan. My plan to set a fire. I know of ways to do it. But it takes a long time to explain. I think I would like a cigarette first. www.philosopherdown.com | | Friday, January 30th, 2009 | 4:46 pm
[willterrytragic]
|
intentional
It took me about 17 minutes to piece together the fact that she had it left in my pillow case entirely on purpose. I sat in my head deconstructing the night in reverse trying to place when it happened. Surely this was no accident and the actual weight of the intention behind it was obviously in tons. I remember her walking through the door, and a Mazzy Star on “Rhymes of an hour” began to skip a bit. The 40-watt incandescent bulb in my side table lamp seems to flicker like a lighting bug in a jar. I was getting signs and subtle clues from a larger force that things were not entirely right. She dropped her bag at her side and began to slide her coat from her shoulders. The tragedy tattoo on her shoulder shone out to me in the dim astral illumination. I watched her walk in slowly diminishing concentric circles around my bed telling me the several events in her life that led up to meeting me that day in the community food kitchen. For a girl with striking green eyes that shone in alarmingly rare fragments of optic opportunity, she never looked anywhere except into my eyes. For a dame with such angelic features, I began to under stand that she was here to cause harm to me. Sitting beside me, she unfolded like an origami rose. All the creases in her character began to flatten and unwind in front of me. I sat fixed and perplexed. Why she had come here, why she had gifted me with the common curse of attraction, I had yet to know. Still now I stand holding this item in my hands knowing she left it here on purpose to give me some invisible message. Earlier she had begun taking off items of clothing at random stating that it was rather warm in my room. First a sock, then a scarf, followed by a stocking. Noises of my roommates in the hallway provided a backdrop of noise information behind us. remainder of story at http://willterrytragic.livejournal.com | 8:01 am
[rebekah1213]
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Venting: Another poem
HypocriteRebekah © 2008 He claims my life is low As he brings me down But he always wants coffee Whenever I seem to be around He doesn’t want to be seen With me Why should I care, If I am mixed in his female sea? He gets frustrated When his phone never stops going off Common sense says "Turn the damn thing off!" He has girls to left He had girls to the right Especially when he smiles In the middle of the night All I see when he takes I never see him give And yet when I offer to help He tell me it’s no way to live I cook and bake And he eats my food But when I ask to go He says he’s not in the mood There are some things He doesn’t want to live with But I just think He’s a hypocrite Current Mood:  bitchy | 7:51 am
[rebekah1213]
|
Haunted
I wrote it
Feelings released
Almost done
Almost ended
So close to
The finish line
And yet
Like an short orgasm
Unfinished
I stop before
I climax
Before I was satisfied
I killed it
I was almost done
Over half completed
Closer to the end
Than the beginning Then there was
A twist in conflict
A turn in the plot
A person in my life
Who made me turn around?
Screw up on an impulse
A false religious notion
A mental lapse
Made me
Lose all my work
To the trash can
I lost months
For a kid
Who wasn’;t even a man
Yet . . . The same person
Who makes fun
Of an orgasm
Even before he truly had one
Who wants a oxymoron for a life
But has no idea what life really is
He wants money
And a family . . . (ha, Ha) He acted like he cared
But now I’;m all alone
With no one
And no work
No story
And it haunts me Haunted
Rebekah 2007
It haunts me . . .
The story replays
Over in my head
Over and over
I just do not
Believe I will
Ever write it as well as
The Original
Nothing is ever better than the original.
Damn it! The story
Plays in my head
Over and over again
I am being haunted
By my own work
And my own past
I am just being haunted! Current Mood:  groggy | | Friday, January 23rd, 2009 | 5:20 pm
[mrsnoggle]
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| | Friday, December 26th, 2008 | 3:47 pm
[orangeface]
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| | Monday, November 3rd, 2008 | 4:21 pm
[tofuwink]
 |
Hey. I am interested in started a zine called ' Our manifesto'. The zine will be an empowering forum where women with disabilities can discuss issues relating to our lives - such as sex, image, motherhood, sexuality, education;etc. and protest agaisnt oppressive societal norms relating to the issue. I use the term 'disability' as an all inclusive term - meaning, (but not limited to) physical, mental, and emotional disability; learning disabilitys; mental illness; etc.The zine will be creative in nature, accepting art, collages, photography, poetry, prose, fiction, etc.Would anyone like to help with the management, etc. of the zine? (I have never put one together before. Looking forward to feedback Thanks Ava | | Tuesday, October 21st, 2008 | 5:44 pm
[funkieb]
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Miniature Time Machines
The ever-expanding universe crystallizes inside my mind. Endless space is minimized against my open palm.
A buzz.
She wants to talk tonight. Discuss a love gone wrong. Discuss the ways and means of after-mathematical equations for something like affectionate friendship.
I respond amidst some nervousness: “I miss your kisses, miss your smile.” The crystal shatters. Silent chaos. The world returns to normal size. Post-apocalyptic switches tripped. My love caught in electric fences, those she built around her heart to shield herself from her intentions.
No next buzz.
The phone just stares at me accusingly. Silently asking me what the fuck I expected. I have no idea. My words just sit collecting dust upon a shelf inside her heart. She cannot allow herself to care. She will not be made to feel guilty over such outdated displays of my longing. Too strong to bear a cross across a barren desert of my compliments. Fuck that and fuck me. She will not be manipulated by my fancy and heartbreaking words any longer. But is that what I’m doing here? I just miss her…is it such a crime to tell her so? Probably it is.
With every day we spend apart I grow more and more an enemy. My words have lost the power to make her smile. These days they just annoy.
Still
I know that when she thinks of me she longs for us a time machine. She’d shoot us to some distant future where her husband and I go golfing on the weekends. Our little families, the best of friends. We invite each other over when we barbeque and watch our children grow together.
But I fucking hate golf.
I’d shoot us to a distant past, before we ever made acquaintance. Shock her with a stranger's kiss and rewrite time for both of us.
Far too selfish, she and I, to wish the present somewhere else. With every interaction we push each other to the brink of our respective visions. Our respective hopes. With our words we push each other towards our own miniature time machines. But neither will give in. We won’t pretend to be a place that we cannot see ourselves happy. I don’t buy her distant future and she won’t accept my distant past. With lack of trust, no compromise, so in the present’s where we’re stuck. | | Sunday, October 12th, 2008 | 11:53 pm
[greasetrap66] |
There's Coffee in my Bourbon
Feedback please, positive or negative. " The goddamn sun beats the shit out of my fuckin' eyes like a sledgehammer. I don't have a 5' o clock shadow so much as 3 days worth of accumulated stubble. Somebody has the radio on and the sound of a banjo's sliding under my door as I push my body up. I woke up on the couch and I'm not quite sure how I got there, the smaller half of a whiskey and coke sitting on the table in front of me might serve as a clue. If I was a detective I would analyze the situation, but I'm not, and besides, who really gives a shit? I know I don't, I could really care less about how I got home, my thoughts and my hopes and my dreams are all on my salvation right now.
The holy grail is just around the corner, but it might as well be a fuckin' mile. Some chinaman once said that the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, one tiny little step. Sounds like some bullshit out of a fortune cookie or a cheesy card from a dime store, I know, but some of those bastards are actually pretty smart, so I think that whoever he was I'll give his logic an honest shot. First foot on the floor. Second foot on the floor. Stand up. Walk. Stumble. Cringe. Crawl. Die. Goddamn you, you fucking chinaman.
I can see it now, it looks like a fucking painting the way the sun is hitting it and bouncing right into my eyes. Tiny little daggers gouging my retinas. I don't care, I'm here, I've made it. Nothing should have the power to be so beautiful, but the cup which carries my redemption sits on the counter slighting the gods with it's glory. Picasso doesn't know beauty. Casanova doesn't know love. God doesn't know shit.
I'm afraid to touch it, like it's something from another world. It can't be real, it smells to good to be meant for a mortal soul like mine. But I can touch it, and I can smell it, and I can drinketh of the cup which carries my salvation. This is my church, this is my communion, this is my Sunday morning ritual cleansing me of the sins from an entire week. This is my coffee pot." | | Friday, October 10th, 2008 | 8:28 pm
[kat0ninetales]
 |
The San Jose Poetry Slam Is This Monday, October 13th
Ladies and Gentlemen, we have quite a show planned for you this Monday, Oct. 13th. The San Jose Poetry Slam will be bringing another spectacular battle of words featuring 12 local poets, 5 impromptu expert judges, and 1 rowdy audience! Your host will be the lovable and ever-so-enthusiastic Mighty Mike McGee. Our special Guest and feature will be Danny Sherrard, the 2007 Individual National Poetry Slam champion. He is the youngest person in the history of the National Poetry Slam to win this title. He has been on the Seattle National Slam team two years in a row. This last April he was flown to Paris for the French Poetry World Cup where Sherrard took a sweeping 1st place. He has shared the stage with such legendary names as Anis Mojgani, Saul Williams, and Buddy Wakefield who refers to Danny as "The Future." He jumps often when he performs to wear gravity thin, and his spirit is bigger than a skyscraper. As usual the slam is sponsored by Faultline Brewery, contributing wonderful micro-brewed beers available to you (With a valid ID and a donation)! How could we make this show any cooler? I’m glad you asked. Starting this show, the winner of the slam will have their poem published in San Jose Poetry Slam Chap – Book and CD. More details at the show!
Cover for the slam: $6
Beer ticket donation: $3
Rocking the mic in SJ on a Monday night: Priceless!
San Jose Poetry Slam @ MACLA
510 S 1st Street San Jose, CA Monday, October 13th $6 at the door 7:30 PM sign up 8 PM show starts | | Wednesday, September 24th, 2008 | 9:52 pm
[untiltwilight67]
 |
new to writing slam. feedback welcome.
broken? don't fucking count on it
you gave me a damn hard knock
you thought u left me on the floor
begging for more broken? no, just plotting my revenge
with every drag i take in
you think you're a big shot man
leaving me here unable to stand broken? not when I knock
that smirk off your face
a deceitful, seductive blow
now who's begging for more | 12:39 pm
[tbird19]
 |
the thoughts of a vengeful spirit
[nothing too big, just a short poem i wrote] the thoughts of a vengeful spirit tip toe and sneak around very quiet i wont make a sound just out of my reach i see you there your day has come time to make things fair everything you ever gave to me every single punch that you threw... well just keep your eyes on the back of your head cause im throwing everything right back at you | | Friday, September 19th, 2008 | 12:08 am
[inkigirl]
 |
As of yet Untitled Poem
How can you find a job when you don't have a home? How can you have a home when you don't have a job? The economy, The economy. Don't blame it on this huge faceless thing. Blame on a broken system. A system that doesn't heal . People just place on patches and pray. Prayer doesn't work when god isn't listening. When I was little I prayed. Prayed every night in fact, even though my parents never asked. I asked, please let me walk, make it easier on me. I asked, please let my brother talk. I bet he'd have a pretty voice. I asked, please make my mom realize she's more brilliant as a poet. I SIT here before you and say god was not listening. I still can't walk, its actually getting worse. My brother doesn't talk, I miss a voice I've never heard. My mother never picks up a pen, never bleeds on the page. How can you find a job when you don't have a home? How can you have a home when you don't have a job? Do not blame the economy. Blame yourselves. For not making it easier on strangers, simply because you don't know them. For not giving a voice to the voiceless, simply because it's not your issue. For not picking up a pen and writing your heart out, simply because you don't have time. |
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