Tag: Poetry

#This is some bad poetry from a journal that has a pink bandana cover. It starts with a
#newspapaer clipping dated June 2, 198

“I get it” the bailaff crys drawing his gun “reality is a pun?” he whipmers from the obvious pain of forty hypodermic needles being inserted into his ass by a small fish eyed womyn named Yvylyn. However, her life is not save, why? – because the bailaff’s brother Babar has had it up to his tusks and is ready for a change – but blook is thicker than water so he settles for lunch with Mary rather then dinner with the reaper. Mary however has aids and not even Rock Star cover of Acidic Classics can save her condomned soul. The God-machine has spoken and the slime rises but rust never sleeps it simply dreams. Where as Yvylyn polots the simple slaughter of the crack dealing caidea gigiloo who has been surgically impregnated by Dr. SafeWay (Ben’s brother), Marys plygamous husband, whose belief in Sushi medicine has lead to more then one medical impossibility.

The Sun slowly rises
The Dreams slowly pass
With head lowered
She remembers the sliding
The manipulations,
of the shadows called
unconsciousness
Adn the noons suns
nicely warms her
neck feathers.

#This is some bad poetry from a journal that has a pink bandana cover. It starts with a
#newspapaer clipping dated June 2, 198

I.

At noon
with the sun directly
overhead
The mockingbird stares
at her toes

By two AM the
change is seen

unity can only be handled
metaphorically
cause the senses keep
getting in the way

think muddled and
wait

she understands her error
and waits for the
dawn to dawn

#This is some bad poetry from a journal that has a pink bandana cover. It starts with a
#newspapaer clipping dated June 2, 1989

Once, I surely felt I heard it said that man is the hiney of the machinery – of this I am not sure But kiss, the football player, certainly admires the feel between the centers thighs. Unlike Elliots center which does not move – or the machines which is the tin man or his heart or some other part. This player has a spinning saucer mounted on his, or rather by his massive cup. Yes slightly reminiscant of the cofee grinder while ideally suited as an athletic supported not unlike charles young or a single phone from a head phone – a trip to the booth to take the order and upset the order of a perfectly ordinary conversation – but by allowing for judgements to bring clarilyt to a subject completely at our control the spoken word will never resume its original course. U and me reader / writed arithmatic is seperation fear of unification ungratefied eraly start returning later in my dreams to a hellish high school in which fourteen year olds flirted with exp in a fool hearted novice manner – lifes a bottle dylan said that biffs a fag hish school said that where as the clouds simply decry enough.
We all already know.
Outlets come in pairs like tits bu neither proclaim the existential electricity, the inherent coolness of simply simply living the aught getting caught only to realive the aught as one ought.

Now that we have the plot – how about a scene against which this ambling tale can be told

#This is some bad poetry from a journal that has a pink bandana cover. It starts with a
#newspapaer clipping dated June 2, 1989.

The Best Words I Could Write

Have not yet been written
but they will be soon,
However, before I begin –
A short story about my
Aesthetics I was born
an unusual cog in the
anarcist system

But enough fun –
yeah write lets get
in on and with it
ext.

#This is some bad poetry from a journal that has a pink bandana cover. It starts with a
#newspapaer clipping dated June 2, 1989.

If one is better then
another due to a
particular set of exp.
a certain circumstantial
existance – then the
differecne is screwed.

Brains can only deconstruct
themselves.

Brian claims to be 5’10”
I can’t really tell – his
acceleration is irrelavant
because his density is so
well distributed – unlike
his language which dances
the ghetto internationally
while remaing firmly in
the black section – Ricky
Schroeder may not be a
nice analogy – but it is
fair.

The folds in a paper
bag.
The definition of which
astounds creation
senstations.

#This is some bad poetry from a journal that has a pink bandana cover. It starts with a
#newspapaer clipping dated June 2, 1989.

“I wanted to give his
new album a plug”
replies supra bri
but, again, no one
was tuned to that
particular frequency.

The two truck is the
perfect metaphor for
Charon – and hopefully
none of us will have
to enter hell with
somone worse then
mell.

One and us collapse
they and them recede
like Henry and June need
to be removed – Speak
in Exp cries the Super
Fuckin Ego hear the
Bell – a plurality of
which yield only
noise.
– 10-11-90

#This is some bad poetry from a journal that has a pink bandana cover. It starts with a
#newspapaer clipping dated June 2, 1989.

Bad Lit with Big Print

“Jump over the Bush”
the metaphore of the
’90’s
event withouth hypens, Emilie

Non objective, self referential
poetry demands time
and absolute honesty
the space has already
been provided

alcohol will not help
angry whinning has
been as effective as
it can be

I never met a
good shot, I didnot
or wouldnot have
hated in High School

Without guns or a voice
I will proceed
Disarmed of literary traditions
Into the arms of Bes

#This is some bad poetry from a journal that has a pink bandana cover. It starts with a
#newspapaer clipping dated June 2, 1989.

Dave the poet is
sick of dressing
not blue cheese or
ranch
father, rather Emerson
the man above
immortality – the trap
intrinsic in Amarican
scholar
Fear it
like form
and Run
Not with x and y
event or name drop
But within for
fame thru
fornication in
Days of Old was
A drag
And womens clothing on
men simply reinstates
the stupidity of
reality
reduce
or more directly
watch, write, remember
the reporduction of mental ice cubes
not entropping, continaing
igloos
or
subtle psychological sublime
ice bergs

Be the avalance or
the titanic dave
be you and stop
talking to me, yourself
– 10-11-90

#This is some bad poetry from a journal that has a pink bandana cover. It starts with a
#newspapaer clipping dated June 2, 1989.

I Dave the Poet

refuse to be censored
for a check.
Will not be screwed
for an advance
Refuste to But into All
That crap.

I will not whine – or
go hungry
My own world will be created

An Invitation will be
required for Admittance

I no longer give a
Shit

Fate Blows and yet
I come
Street-smart education
has been destroyed
by television.

Bush has destroyed
Libraries
Elders no longer
Remember

I will learn what
is already known
I will gaze inward
constantly

I have Become
Dave the Poet.