Clangor
it is a chore now, where did my spirit go?
relatives call me out to the harvest
covered in the dust of day.
factory smoke chokes the life from the sky
like a monthly meeting.
death staggers in and sits next to me,
closely watching.
I pretend not to notice the TV tuned to FOX.
I did not choose it,
it chose me.
the struggle of a poet trying to find his words
inside the belly of a fish
swollen by a tiny hook-
oh these great misfortunes and terrible pains
that disease us daily.
through the punishment of space
we find ourselves cramped
and illogical, immediate beings always wanting
more more more,
but lacking a place to put it all.
where did my spirit go?
it is a chore now, reaching out to your wild mind.
I feel ill and useless,
trapped in a tin like sideways fish,
an orgy of assassins resting before another
fucking kill.
taste me, lover, take my words and shape them
into genital dreams.
I'm still in love with a face in pain
and a head bursting against a door jamb.
the raging light,
the temporal flare that straightens rivers,
the wrath of a thousand gods...
where did my spirit go?
poem by Mick Tomlinson
relatives call me out to the harvest
covered in the dust of day.
factory smoke chokes the life from the sky
like a monthly meeting.
death staggers in and sits next to me,
closely watching.
I pretend not to notice the TV tuned to FOX.
I did not choose it,
it chose me.
the struggle of a poet trying to find his words
inside the belly of a fish
swollen by a tiny hook-
oh these great misfortunes and terrible pains
that disease us daily.
through the punishment of space
we find ourselves cramped
and illogical, immediate beings always wanting
more more more,
but lacking a place to put it all.
where did my spirit go?
it is a chore now, reaching out to your wild mind.
I feel ill and useless,
trapped in a tin like sideways fish,
an orgy of assassins resting before another
fucking kill.
taste me, lover, take my words and shape them
into genital dreams.
I'm still in love with a face in pain
and a head bursting against a door jamb.
the raging light,
the temporal flare that straightens rivers,
the wrath of a thousand gods...
where did my spirit go?
poem by Mick Tomlinson
Elementary attempts by a young follower, what do you think?
ReplyDeleteyeah yeah yeah i sing my song, i sing it just for me. just noise in your ears the I sing this noise happily; just for me yeah yeah just for me just for me. I make my jokes and laugh alone. Not for you they are my own. when some hear, they just don't know and its just fine I laugh alone All these things i do for me, these little things because they make me smile. not for you and that's okay, but now I feel so far away wishing I'd share for just a while.
My initial thought: is this the intended format? Poetry in paragraph form always loses me, as does rhyme, but obviously that's just my personal preference. As for the actual words, they are very quaint! Just how young are you, anonymous?
ReplyDelete16! flagstaff AZ!not the intended lay out but i wasn't exactly sure. the end seems very sudden and random I dunno.
ReplyDeletemaybe i should keep my stuff just for me too.
ReplyDeleteWell I will say this, Arizona. I started writing when I was 16 or 17 and it's the only thing in my life that I didn't let go of. I didn't start sharing anything I wrote for a long time either, but then again I didn't have a lot to say when I was young and growing up. As you get older you discover things, including yourself, and then the substance becomes evident in your writing. I recommend joining allpoetry.com and start making friends with other poets. Read, comment, learn, and enjoy. It's a great site, I've been part of it for many years now. Most importantly, never stop writing! The art of writing is a continuous learning experience, that's for sure.
ReplyDeleteI like it.
ReplyDelete...
the struggle of a poet trying to find his words
inside the belly of a fish
swollen by a tiny hook-
oh these great misfortunes and terrible pains
that disease us daily.
through the punishment of space
we find ourselves cramped
and illogical, immediate beings always wanting
more more more,
but lacking a place to put it all
...
Quite good. The tensions and conflicts of space could be expanded on further, don't you think?
Couldn't agree with you more, sir. And I expand on them constantly with each new poem I write.
ReplyDeletean orgy of assassins resting before another
ReplyDeletefucking kill.
love it.