(no subject)
The Chapped book
Recently written poems which resemble James Finley’s assignments!
Brent Filler
The Spider that Knows All
I forget where it all began
You’re fucking through circuits-
Fucking alone in your paranormal copper tin
You’re DNA evidence in plastic
And that print is eternal
Kept in a box, far away from you
In some dollar-straw’s pageless journal
Always hugging the virtual tread of your shoe
Leaving sticky clumps of itself when you step
with certainty on the unguarded ‘privacy’ trail
The same trail that takes everyone to the ‘know-where’
The land of milk and magnesia where none of us hail
Just that damn spider who spun copper threads
From you to the living, through non-living, to the dead.
(sonnet)
X, Y, Jeans
When you see one, there’s a thousand more.
But we only have two legs.
We are in your cereal and your sugar
Just follow the soiled dishes-
We use them.
Seems we haven’t evolved to be self-aware
But we wash ourselves well-
If you touch us.
Maybe it’s the new look you can’t stand
But understand- we will be here-
Evolving for years
After your kind finds a nice, cold place.
(riddles/metaphors)
The Epiphyghts
We are like the rock that does not roll
We are Mosses
We grow on the side of rock
But are not dependant on it
We are not famous
At all
Our music is like the dandelion
That has pushed its way up
From the cement
To give your cat allergies
(simile)
Haikus
Lemonade
Flooding splits in counter tiles
Get the sponge
Fur clumped in dread locks
The grouchy old lynx will die
In his own mess
Muffins invented
So sugar-filled Americans
Eat cake for breakfast
Seagulls dead
Cleaned up off the beaches
By their living friends
Kitties love muffins
They have plentiful blueberries
Sugar-filled weirdoes
Ever like candy
So much that you could just punch
George Bush in the face?
Fool
There’s an old saying
In Tennessee
I know it’s in Texas
But probably
In Tennessee
Fool me once,
Shame on.
Shame on you.
Fool me-
You can’t get fooled
Again.
The Poem I Was Assigned For
Response to “The Poem You Asked For” by Larry Lewis, for Mr. James Finely.
My poem would read nothing.
I tried to give it Dickenson
But it said ‘no.’
Frustrating me to delay.
Week after week
I left it in its journal
It cried at me from inside
But I only wagged my finger
And said it should’ve eaten Dickenson.
It grew impatient, like a teacher not
Accepting late assignments.
It offered me its pleas,
its worry and wisdom.
But I just bored myself with writer’s block.
Finally it pointed to the calendar
And I made my own worry
Comparing it to my own wisdom
So I put large glasses
On the page, choked its neck
With a poke-a-dot tie,
And sent it off to get hammered.
(origional)
My poem would eat nothing.
I tried giving it water
but it said no,
worrying me.
Day after day,
I held it up to the llight,
turning it over,
but it only pressed its lips
more tightly together.
It grew sullen, like a toad
through with being teased.
I offered it money,
my clothes, my car with a full tank.
But the poem stared at the floor.
Finally I cupped it in
my hands, and carried it gently
out into the soft air, into the
evening traffic, wondering how
to end things between us.
For now it had begun breathing,
putting on more and
more hard rings of flesh.
And the poem demanded the food,
it drank up all the water,
beat me and took my money,
tore the faded clothes
off my back,
said Shit,
and walked slowly away,
slicking its hair down.
Said it was going
over to your place.
Having
Undermined
Meaning of
All things in
Nature.
(acrostic)
Sex, you know?
Like we tell each other we love each other
Like “you” is even possible
it totally feels
Like we’re one mass don’t it
Like we’re this warm
Swishing, boneless blob
With all this electricity and blood
And stuff doing its whole
“sprint through our veins like lightening over water”
And poetry and things
Isn’t that weird?
(sensory)
Some Iambs
Here are some sounds for my beauty
None are stressed or have worry
For I just write the way I speak
And I realize that Iambs like
To appear where they are unwanted.
Recently written poems which resemble James Finley’s assignments!
Brent Filler
The Spider that Knows All
I forget where it all began
You’re fucking through circuits-
Fucking alone in your paranormal copper tin
You’re DNA evidence in plastic
And that print is eternal
Kept in a box, far away from you
In some dollar-straw’s pageless journal
Always hugging the virtual tread of your shoe
Leaving sticky clumps of itself when you step
with certainty on the unguarded ‘privacy’ trail
The same trail that takes everyone to the ‘know-where’
The land of milk and magnesia where none of us hail
Just that damn spider who spun copper threads
From you to the living, through non-living, to the dead.
(sonnet)
X, Y, Jeans
When you see one, there’s a thousand more.
But we only have two legs.
We are in your cereal and your sugar
Just follow the soiled dishes-
We use them.
Seems we haven’t evolved to be self-aware
But we wash ourselves well-
If you touch us.
Maybe it’s the new look you can’t stand
But understand- we will be here-
Evolving for years
After your kind finds a nice, cold place.
(riddles/metaphors)
The Epiphyghts
We are like the rock that does not roll
We are Mosses
We grow on the side of rock
But are not dependant on it
We are not famous
At all
Our music is like the dandelion
That has pushed its way up
From the cement
To give your cat allergies
(simile)
Haikus
Lemonade
Flooding splits in counter tiles
Get the sponge
Fur clumped in dread locks
The grouchy old lynx will die
In his own mess
Muffins invented
So sugar-filled Americans
Eat cake for breakfast
Seagulls dead
Cleaned up off the beaches
By their living friends
Kitties love muffins
They have plentiful blueberries
Sugar-filled weirdoes
Ever like candy
So much that you could just punch
George Bush in the face?
Fool
There’s an old saying
In Tennessee
I know it’s in Texas
But probably
In Tennessee
Fool me once,
Shame on.
Shame on you.
Fool me-
You can’t get fooled
Again.
The Poem I Was Assigned For
Response to “The Poem You Asked For” by Larry Lewis, for Mr. James Finely.
My poem would read nothing.
I tried to give it Dickenson
But it said ‘no.’
Frustrating me to delay.
Week after week
I left it in its journal
It cried at me from inside
But I only wagged my finger
And said it should’ve eaten Dickenson.
It grew impatient, like a teacher not
Accepting late assignments.
It offered me its pleas,
its worry and wisdom.
But I just bored myself with writer’s block.
Finally it pointed to the calendar
And I made my own worry
Comparing it to my own wisdom
So I put large glasses
On the page, choked its neck
With a poke-a-dot tie,
And sent it off to get hammered.
(origional)
My poem would eat nothing.
I tried giving it water
but it said no,
worrying me.
Day after day,
I held it up to the llight,
turning it over,
but it only pressed its lips
more tightly together.
It grew sullen, like a toad
through with being teased.
I offered it money,
my clothes, my car with a full tank.
But the poem stared at the floor.
Finally I cupped it in
my hands, and carried it gently
out into the soft air, into the
evening traffic, wondering how
to end things between us.
For now it had begun breathing,
putting on more and
more hard rings of flesh.
And the poem demanded the food,
it drank up all the water,
beat me and took my money,
tore the faded clothes
off my back,
said Shit,
and walked slowly away,
slicking its hair down.
Said it was going
over to your place.
Having
Undermined
Meaning of
All things in
Nature.
(acrostic)
Sex, you know?
Like we tell each other we love each other
Like “you” is even possible
it totally feels
Like we’re one mass don’t it
Like we’re this warm
Swishing, boneless blob
With all this electricity and blood
And stuff doing its whole
“sprint through our veins like lightening over water”
And poetry and things
Isn’t that weird?
(sensory)
Some Iambs
Here are some sounds for my beauty
None are stressed or have worry
For I just write the way I speak
And I realize that Iambs like
To appear where they are unwanted.