I try to write when I wish,
About most things I desire.
All that I have need to do is put pen to paper,
Thus giving birth to a life upon
An objective environment.
One constructed by me: a world of
From points and concepts, ideas and thoughts
That are fearful,
Is born, and thrives,
Until I have my boundary of don’ts
To the empty space
Only means embracing,
Considering and developing extensively
Ideas that are attractive,
Or seen as
Beautiful to my socialised self image.
Flavour is added from
Anything else helpfully in achieving
Nirvana of cohesion between
And my stimuli.
Fear and wonder,
Me and them, is
Balanced through reason
Until i have a battlefield of mental diarrhoea-
A smokey, hazy visage of everyday conventions-
And wounded subconscious, and
The mighty forces of belief
And individuality laying dead.
The war ended
Upon putting down the pen,
Leaves my page a heap of love ,
And a heap
the big bug i saw
he's eaten all the ants raw
i hate him now.
I think that
(having died so long ago)
I can find myself
(where I went)
In the manner in which
I need to
To be artistic.
I know that
(given the chance)
I have the potential
(in my brain)
To become a great
(not a legend but...)
in the world of
Had I been born
Before my due
(11 days later)
I would have been a part
(and not away)
of something bigger that I am now.
I would not be mistaken by my peers as a hippie.
(always something different...)
Beatnik at heart,
the lovely and mysterious,
Miss Sophie San
i wish...this community...would take off...a little...
[the thought of it intrigues me...
What can I say? This is sort of what got me started on experimental poetry. Spacing is a little fucked up. Oops. Feedback?
Spray can in (skilled)hand(s)
Caress the smooth concrete
Feel for the perfect surface.
[this wall] Is the Canvas of
A red spray I Can
,with its wide angled tip, is the
Idea X-Acto™’d out of poster-board,
Inscribed in Negative (,not positive,)space to
Spread the message. Listen to it speak—(Hiss…,)the
Krylon™ can the voice of an otherwise
building-side. It becomes the
Crazy street Prophet with an outlandish thought-bubble Waiting for passers-by.
(the crazy street profit with an
Outlandish thought-bubble Waiting for passers-buy.)
The Right(no: Left)eousness and Conviction of
Concrete, taught to articulate
(With matte black lips,)the
Zeal of an oppressed degeneration.
Thought Bomb that--silently--
Roars with the idealistlessness that so Disturbs the
Young Rebel without a (be)cause.
very intrigued by the starting of this community...