|A Clocksunk Sigh
A mystery thigh
a brazen grin
we ordered the chaos
but they brought us time instead
molecular controversies are usually solved
but atoms on the otherhand overwhelm us
A rain soaked quote walked right through the door
she shook her black umbrella, wetness scattered
"Deconstruction makes Zen undecidable"
Look at my shoes please, Red severity and mercy worn
A storm of words fell
sweeping patters of letters
The streets are frozen
her smile melts in white candle flame
6 Mar 08
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UL listed, safe for myspace -- assertions in prosy language -- doesn't seem that arty -- short enough to read, and better short since it's not talking about anyone interesting -- "sweeping patters of letters" is really poetry, dude -- i sometimes feel my smile is melting too -- a mystery thigh sounds like mystery high! rad! did you mean it that way?? -- deconstruction makes this to serious -- dumb, dude. atoms are what makes molecules -- a rains soaked quote doesn't make sense -- she shook her black umbrella, wetness scattered has to be the most beautiful poetry i have read today! thank you -- i don't like the title. why don't you write the title what it really is? --
No deconstuction is play and the end of play, not serious per se. Atoms do comprise molecules but the constituents of atomic compostiton are more formable, where is a hedron? The title is not what you think it is although with my deslexia i do see what you mean. Ambiguity increases potentialities.
well, those are good arguments for myspace, but those guys don't really comment on the poem just on how smart they are, and these comments will be wasted on them.
i don't know what people would say about this in p.c. ... oh, yea, "ten". that's way more brilliant.
you did understand that my comments were hypothetically myspace comments from myspacers?
Mm i don't do my space but yes. Glory holes are my space(s). and are filled with wisdom.
what is the topography of wisdom in this poem then? since wisdom is never approached directly, but only climbed towards or mounted or swam -- there is no trailer park called wisdom where we can rest our wheels. show me your secrets of writing and i'll show you my secrets of crit.
"CHI sogna di GIORNO conosce molte COSE che sfuggono a chi sogna solo di NOTTE".
night and day, you are the one. only you beneath the moon and under the sun. whether near to me or far, it's not matter, raven, where you are i think of you -- night and day!
Look in my tailer park window, come sip a tall boy, listen to the neighbors shout, pee outside, the momemt before you pass out perhaps you can catch a glimps of wisdom out of the corner of your bleary eye... Secrets show in time eh?
that's not poetry making though, that's the facade we build to keep the neighbors happy. i'm asking, say, how the facade is constructed -- whether you use prefab siding -- standard cliches made subjective -- or whether you start with invented phrases and then back off from them and find more genteel and user friendly phrases.
what is the relation for you between the conversational language you use to medicate the folks with and the actual poetry language which is in your head or forming in your mind or on the tip of your tongue when you're writing a poem?
Off the top of my head I'll say that conversational language is usually utiliterian and rectilinear and gauged towards the ability of whom is being addressed while poetic language or mind is an amorphus language, almost a paralanguage that speaks in terms that seems to trigger responses from the unconscious... Public language feeds the flower of the secret language floating in my head and i try to render it a form so others can look and wonder...
yah, i understand that about public consciousness. when you say "unconscious" isn't that also one of those public conversational words that feed our sensibility. do you really think there can be an "unconscious"?
There is laundry in the sock drawer and on the clothes line.
easy listening poetry.
Perhaps unconscious connotes a clear division between two things, so find another more cohesive term. Mm ambiant poetry not easy listening please.
is she dead?