So here we are.

Shake off your illusions,
press our warm bodies back to back,
scream at the silence of night –
that b i t c h won’t take us.

Run through the forest,
forage for dinner and
scrape the leaves dry
with your bare rotten teeth
end up on the ground laughing
at the ridiculousness of living.

I will wipe the blood stains from your face
while we feast on the entrails of a ripe carcass
and make you beautiful before morning.

I will whisper airy tangents into your brain
every night while you sleep and one morning
you will wake and taste the world, rub
your satiated belly, get to your feet,
and stand unstained by the passage of time.

Your hands and feet will revert to claws
and while you fly your song will echo into
space and every star will shake until the fabric
of time tears into tiny little pieces of paper
shaped like snowflakes.

Then, riding your chariot through the sky
you too will sing dreams into sleeping minds.

They will not know you were there, but
they will wake up dazzled, rub their work
tired eyes and repeat

“There will be time enough on other days, this
too can wait.”

Knowing the past and forgetting the future you too will wait.  

I feel like I've been brushing
my teeth with dynamite,
gargling with stomach acid
and swimming in oil spills.

"She's too pretty for you," he says
and pitches his cigarette
into the gutter where fish and
birds can choke on the toxic angels
and
garbage towers that rise to the sky.

If I was a god I would crush worlds
and snort their ashes.
I would be the only deity around
considered to be rabid, and dangerous.

There is a summer of memories locked beneath a thought of you.
Past the honeysuckle that clung to the fence in our yard –
beyond water and summer and winter and love.

I’ve written thousands of poems and used devices
to craft words into sounds from thoughts I could
not express because my belief was these were
things that could not be said.

My entire life I’ve felt like a shadow hovering
above my body – watching life go by,
which I could not feel because
I was not really alive.

I finally wrote about and relived the experience
of my father dying, and as I understood why I
could not say the things I tried to feel –
I slowly felt myself descend
ever so slowly,
piece by piece,
back into my body.
“How good it feels,” I said as I tried on my new skin,
“to have a body again.”

Burn the poor to heat the rich

Let's take lunch early
and
     eat time for fun.
Forget about forgetting
and
     watch the moon chase the sun.

Let's get dizzy spinning circles
to watch
      the world turn upside down.

Chew on Ritalin when we're thirsty,
and
     eat dog meat at the pound.

Let's beat the neighbor's kids with sticks
and
    burn the poor to heat the rich.

Burn the poor to heat the rich.

The meeting at midnight when the house is silent

The brush of hips

words whispered in shadows

Rhythm of skin to skin

a cadence nature created

Flesh wound to bones

bones to soul

gone

Long nights returning to an empty house

Years straining against an empty promise

Silence drawn into wood

like a breath held too deep too long

Can I ask what the concept is here on this thread.  These are obviously all your poems????  Are we to comment, add our own poems...what?  

MBCgirl

Since this is primarily a screenwriting site I didn't imagine anyone would have any interest in them. If you have some good poetry which you feel fits with this scheme then post it. If you have criticism, write it.
Granted, they are all mine, but all writers who publish their work are obviously looking for type of feedback, be it a reply of your own poetry or a critique of their work.

The snow settles on a field in front of my house
and as I watch it descend I imagine
bones in the sky, grinding against each other
and shaking ash over the earth.

I open my mouth and let the acrid ash  lace my tongue.
I do not speak, my lips have gone numb – the cadence corrupt.  

The universe stretches out, long eons of dark-matter lattices, plagues of hyper-civilizations escaping entropy – the disorder increasing in space.

I do not wonder about god, for if she exists, she is a f u c k i n g psychotic, a twisted and disfigured corpse who makes us eat the dead flesh of some thing, had we known, we might have loved.
Perhaps the pig, all ruint in s h i t, layed in an open field and dreamed of flowers opening to snow and loved, again, it is gone.

Every day is a blessing, I know, I know.
I had to kill again, not for pleasure, but for health.
And again, some thing had I known, I surely would have loved.

The snow settles on the field in front of my house,
and as I watch it descend I imagine
the swine I ingested turning in my gut,
taking nothing with it,
not even the flower opening to snow.

Quoted from electricsatori Since this is primarily a screenwriting site I didn't imagine anyone would have any interest in them. If you have some good poetry which you feel fits with this scheme then post it. If you have criticism, write it. Granted, they are all mine, but all writers who publish their work are obviously looking for type of feedback, be it a reply of your own poetry or a critique of their work.

If you look back into the poetry thread you'll notice Tommy started a 'poem a day' challenge which many of us contributed to: http://www.simplyscripts.net/cgi-bin/Blah/Blah.pl?b-poetry/m-1249901335/

Then the August OWC redirected our interest elsewhere for a bit.

You've got some nice poems here ES, no doubt of your talent in this direction but I feel staggering their release and/or adding to the existing thread above might have been a good idea.

Just to give readers time to absorb ... hey, just my opinion.

Libby

Thanks for your feedback. I appreciate you telling me I have talent. I would appreciate more, a critique of my work, or better, a reply with your own work.

somehow, the plague got through
the paper-thin veil
stitched together
of our prayers and
(lamentations)
burned a cigarette-sized hole, in
which the single eye of a curious
child would occasionally peer
(blue, brown or hazel) it
never mattered.  

And, in
a fit of sneezes -
stained cherry red
welts, like lesions, on her
pale cheek,
“a kiss before leaving,” she said.
and I knew what she meant.

She wanted to take
all of the snow
and drown the sun -
bury herself in immortality.
burn away 100 billion births
before hers
before any of us
had curious eyes
peering through paper-thin veils.

I remember Denver,
it was not all too long ago
I knelt in an alley,
vomiting
on my jeans.

I remember Virginia,
and meditating
on infinite planes
for endless hours,
- finding
a hole in the sky,
and
nothing else.

And Denver again,
a mouthful
of blood,
as I ram
my tooth
back in my gum
after
being slugged,
while drunk.

Then Virginia,
the bloated ocean
spilled over the shore
to impress
upon the world
the indelible
nature of the words
I wrote
on the sand.

In Vegas,
I let
the desert heat
soak
into my bones,
and
slept
like a child,
a spoiled
and
dirty child.

the rest of the town watches a witch burn and don’t know
how bad it is to die by being burned alive and
all the while being innocent the young girl, no older than fifteen,
wonders what it would have been like
to have kissed a boy or loved a man, or maybe a woman
but she’s burning and she can smell the clothes
her mom stitched together for her on her last birthday
when she learned how to ride a horse
and she imagines herself and the horse riding on top of the clouds
and she dissolves in the sun
and she dissolves in the fire
and all the while the pain is unbearable for a grown man, let alone a young girl
and it was all of us who built the pyre
and let the fire lick the side of her face
and burn her nipples
and she watches a storm on the horizon
and prays for rain
but cannot remember
what it is like to feel the drops on her skin, or the cold wind.

It was raining, pieces

of            s  

     k    

       y(descendi

ing) dangling

                from the tips

of trees

we(we)re

teenagersrunningtogether

kissing

in the rain, warm breath

lips to lips

you (we)re,

alive then.

It was just a photograph of you,

in our front yard

that I remember,

but I have never kept another

photograph since.



Your age was clear in the kodak,

a spotted bald head,

(you were)

standing erect against

your curved spine.



The tattered shirt was stained

and you looked normal,

old,

as you always did.

I have never kept another photograph since.