Three new poems
Dead Poetry
When Nietzsche spoke of god, it should have been in rhyme.
As distorted microphones dictate in unfamiliar time.
I'm thinking fuck this is boring but fuck this is divine.
I fucking hate poetry but somehow I'm feeling fine.
And although prosperity and poetry don't really mix.
I sometimes feel like we're just up here doing tricks.
After all there's nothing a good pimp can't buy, but self-esteem.
Though I wonder if poetry extends from whores to feeling free.
Now you may think I'm being harsh, spitting in your wine.
But you may dismiss this as angst or bad taste.
I really do not mind.
Just as long as you understand these few simple lines.
Language is a brothel and we are all its whores.
Sipping ice tea during the rape scene, tisk tisk such a bore.
Cliché after cliché within a culture war.
Come on baby clap your hands and count to four.
1. 2. 3. Well it's just the dead fucking poetry.
Words Going Nowhere
From here, looking at you without looking up from this page.
Any meaning had in keystroke begins to dissipate.
Has it been replaced?
Something more poignant perhaps?
No not really.
As life behind constructs tends to collapse.
Yesterday I saw another old man in my shoes.
And I really wished that they weren't such a common brand.
The old men that is.
Shuffling from street corner to cafe, eyes down.
To the beat of a concrete waltz.
It isn't as though I see an aged self nor is it that I stumble upon the profound.
But perhaps when we exchange a glance, I stop thinking and listen to the sound.
Of humanity. Of all that was once before. Of trying too hard to explain this sensation. Of letting go of a world abused by Capitalist whores. Of music become noise in the cafe scene. Of slowly forgetting this sensation, emotional masturbation. Of silence within the best of our dreams. Of TV junkies milking the fiends. Of starting to rhyme when I said that I would not. Of his concrete shuffle continuing up the street. Of my own voice in my head telling myself that we are all alone. Of time slowly moving away from the ever present today.
The sound of words going nowhere as we all get that little bit more afraid.
Found
It is not where it is at but it is where it may be found.
Born from infinite head space leaping in bounds.
It is not where it is at but it is where it may be found.
Our fathers were shepherds, we were mere clowns.
It is not where it is at but it is where it may be found.
On the boulevard I sold my soul for a few pounds.
It is not where it is at but it is where it may be found.
A slave like existence within an almighty compound.
It is not where it is at but it is where it may be found.
Beyond the inevitable where silence meets sound.
It is not where it is at but it is where it may be found.
With no feeling but the thought of flesh on the ground.
It is not where it is at but it is where it may be found.
We stare back at the sun as we all slowly drown.
When Nietzsche spoke of god, it should have been in rhyme.
As distorted microphones dictate in unfamiliar time.
I'm thinking fuck this is boring but fuck this is divine.
I fucking hate poetry but somehow I'm feeling fine.
And although prosperity and poetry don't really mix.
I sometimes feel like we're just up here doing tricks.
After all there's nothing a good pimp can't buy, but self-esteem.
Though I wonder if poetry extends from whores to feeling free.
Now you may think I'm being harsh, spitting in your wine.
But you may dismiss this as angst or bad taste.
I really do not mind.
Just as long as you understand these few simple lines.
Language is a brothel and we are all its whores.
Sipping ice tea during the rape scene, tisk tisk such a bore.
Cliché after cliché within a culture war.
Come on baby clap your hands and count to four.
1. 2. 3. Well it's just the dead fucking poetry.
Words Going Nowhere
From here, looking at you without looking up from this page.
Any meaning had in keystroke begins to dissipate.
Has it been replaced?
Something more poignant perhaps?
No not really.
As life behind constructs tends to collapse.
Yesterday I saw another old man in my shoes.
And I really wished that they weren't such a common brand.
The old men that is.
Shuffling from street corner to cafe, eyes down.
To the beat of a concrete waltz.
It isn't as though I see an aged self nor is it that I stumble upon the profound.
But perhaps when we exchange a glance, I stop thinking and listen to the sound.
Of humanity. Of all that was once before. Of trying too hard to explain this sensation. Of letting go of a world abused by Capitalist whores. Of music become noise in the cafe scene. Of slowly forgetting this sensation, emotional masturbation. Of silence within the best of our dreams. Of TV junkies milking the fiends. Of starting to rhyme when I said that I would not. Of his concrete shuffle continuing up the street. Of my own voice in my head telling myself that we are all alone. Of time slowly moving away from the ever present today.
The sound of words going nowhere as we all get that little bit more afraid.
Found
It is not where it is at but it is where it may be found.
Born from infinite head space leaping in bounds.
It is not where it is at but it is where it may be found.
Our fathers were shepherds, we were mere clowns.
It is not where it is at but it is where it may be found.
On the boulevard I sold my soul for a few pounds.
It is not where it is at but it is where it may be found.
A slave like existence within an almighty compound.
It is not where it is at but it is where it may be found.
Beyond the inevitable where silence meets sound.
It is not where it is at but it is where it may be found.
With no feeling but the thought of flesh on the ground.
It is not where it is at but it is where it may be found.
We stare back at the sun as we all slowly drown.
posted by Ray G at 1:29 AM
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