The Creative Act

So here is the most recent revision of the poem, I took some ideas from what people gave me and what they thought didn’t work all that well and here’s the result, tell me what you think and I’ll see what revisions I can make for another revision. Personally I’m quite happy with the result and it shows how valuable this site can be, but don’t let my happiness with the product thus far influence your harshness in criticism, ultimately I wanna dig some good poetry. So here it is…

Alas

there’s a lass who wears

all the right masks

whose heart is

 lined with crimes,

like blood stained

 glass

  › Continue reading

Okay, so here are some revisions, tell me what you think, one stanza is in red and that is the stanza which I’m really disliking especially because I consider it to be the point of the poem. So tell me what you all think about it, I’d love to hear your ideas for working it, they reall help! So, without further ado:

Alas, there’s a lass

who wears all the right masks

whose heart is pink, I think,

like blood stained glass

  › Continue reading

Alas, there’s a lass

who wears all the right masks

whose heart is pink, I think,

like blood stained glass

  › Continue reading

Alas, there’s a lass

who wears all the right masks

whose heart was pink, I do think,

like blood stained glass › Continue reading

One could consider the burger you’re eating
Muscular, Masticating, Molars
Forcing the bolus
with your throbbing tongue
down, down, in
Does the food slide down the sides
of your stomach?
Or does it splash
Like a just pinched turd
in your innard fluids?

Later on, we’ll be back at my place
and your fluids will
shake baby shake
as we fuck baby fuck
One could consider
mid-coitus
the burger you ate.

I wrote this one a little while ago, and just revised it a little to see if I could improve it. I’d appreciate any comments. I find that my problem often lies in making rules and sticking to them, or in sort of concluding, so tell me what you think, and I’ll re-post revisions in a week or so .

Mad to be Sad

Reddened, by your

Readability,

The facility,

Of your curves

Reiterated by your

Reciprocity

My humble songs

Turned to slurrs

Elated by your

Prefect brevity

Your concise

Thought incision

Rebuked by your

Mocking symmetry

Maddened chronology’s decision

I’m mad to be had

By you, love

Mad to be sad, if itsa round

You, love

I’m mad!(hysterics)MAD!

Mad to wage, this macrophage,

That’s eating, bleating, treating and seating you first,

In my mind,

In my clockwerk

Stopping my tries

To unwind,

Or to sate my thirst

Compounding all those white lies

That were shared in the late night ride

On our spirit’s hearse,

It’s a tried, true hipocrisy

Of unitary gains, lied to

For individual worth

And so you manifest,

You instigate and re-create,

My unrest!

You manifest as your best!

A ten-fold Ikea manual

That I’ll never understand

As I try to catch my breath!

(rest)

I return,

To earth

And look to you, love

And you, avert your eyes, love

So I decide the truth, love

And ours smile, dies…

how to paint a horizon?
What a leap of faith

a decision

to manifest the end
of sky
of earth

So suddenly

HA! What ants! What ants! What ants!

That the sky should seem to end
is that not apt testament to how shallow
our understanding be?

That we wake
each day
and call ourselves
kings!

I call us
ethelred!

We know but shadows

we, but momentary
clots of being

largely blind
calling ourselves
god as we stumble
through the shadows
and bending light.

Generation Y
Generation “Me”

Generation..
What the fuck does it all mean

A sick kind of sadness
A sick kind of madness

A sick kind of consumption
dressed in smiles
for the masses

Opium dens of cash flow
built with paper and
pen

Assembly lines of E-tards
pushing price tags for
Zen

The generations before us
and indeed after us
implore us

To make repairs to their damage
and apply feathers
to the war-dust

So will history laugh
as we crash and recede?

Will children still die
as we deny
that they bleed

There’s work to be done
and jobs to create

In our inspiration
nation
there’ll be no place
for self-rape

beep
beep
A red satellite whisper
far off in space

looking down and sighing
and crying
“I’ve escaped!”

The best way that I can describe life is this. Life, conception and all of that is like a whitecap. All of the atoms
and quarks and whatnot of which the ocean comprises have been thrown throughout the galaxy by the exploding suns and
somehow coalesced into the world’s oceans and waters. Through time and chance those particles work their way spatially
to what we call the surface of the water, and by weather and geological activity and even by the ripples created by
fish and passing boats, two bodies of water smash together and reach towards the sky. We are that splash. The two
bodies of water, the sperm and the ovum that formed us in the beginning. We are the ocean’s grasp for the sky it will
never reach. Though we will never prevail, our only option, by chance given mandate is to stretch in futility for things
we can never know.

The colours of my childhood
are still there
they still smile
or curse
or shroud

The colours of my childhood
still speak

They question
and feed me cereal
at 6am, before school › Continue reading