So I thought I'd post my two contributions to the poetic society meeting I had today, because I like both of them. The first is a "sonnet with the subject: as seen on a billboard, 'future corridors.'" I titled that one "The User." The second is just a "list poem" I wrote in ten minutes during the meeting and edited minimally after that. It has no title, and no suggested subject. Also..
RAHRAHRAH I BEASTED MY BIOORGANIC EXAM RAHRAHRAH mrgreen rofl twisted xp blaugh 3nodding xd biggrin cool smile talk2hand burning_eyes ninja question
Copyright SiberDrac 2008. Because I really like these.
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The User
He's dirty. Treading life and thinking 'bout
Down what halls he will travel the next day.
He wonders which ideas he ought to flout
That he might yet ensnare one more year's pay.
And if he must trod on a few men's toes,
Perhaps ram home a bone Boss bites that might
Humiliate a cohort, he delights
And does it and enjoy their squirming throes.
On down what future corridors he'll thrust
His ego, making room, though none is wished,
For what he wants until his peak is reached.
His victims' eyes are closed, blind to his lust
And never know they will be used and ditched
When, satisfied, he dismounts and retreats.
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So that was fun. Here's the next one.
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Oh! How it is to be consumed by labor, breath pushing fruit and streaming, screaming until the duty is done.
Oh! How it is to be consumed by dandelions and fruits, losing yourself in fields and hills and valleys and laughing to trip and laugh again.
Oh! How it is to be consumed by starlight and moonlight, flesh prickling as though changed from within, as hills become mountains to climb and serpents become playthings.
Oh! How it is to be consumed by wanderlust and fail to settle, and a book is at once a coiled viper and a requirement, teaching that you wanted to be pricked and bitten and learned.
Oh! How it is to be consumed by cuckoos, mechanical tickers pricking and sticking too often to the point, and tasting rotten fruit, and asking how birds can cast shadows to drown starlight with paper wings and inky droppings.
Oh! How it is to be consumed by jackals and scorpions, and to be a burned book, a rotten cuckoo, and for wanderlust to reveal you under starlight while dandelions fail to mourn you but dance instead on your hill covering wasted fruit, and labor is past.
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Questions, comments, concerns? Hope you enjoyed it.
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Carpe Diem Ad Muertum
Sieze the day, to the death. There is no potential that shall be passed by, there is no piece of glory to fall by the wayside, there is no soul to left unsaved by the brilliance of language. As writers, we are gods.
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