Let's all get high and write some poetry.

Discussion in 'The Artist's Corner' started by RuseOfMetacarpi, Sep 28, 2007.

  1. So as some of you may know I tripped 5 grams of shrooms a while back. I haven't been able to sleep and this delerium mixed with the revelations from that intense trip have made for me writing a shitload in a short amount of time. Here's a couple poems and some other shit. Enjoy :)

    The Painter, The Poet, The Pianist

    The painter, the poet, the pianist
    converged in a single room
    to discuss the details of humanity
    of mother Earth or reason's womb

    with the air a lady they had known,
    her scent a sweet perfume
    their conversation fueled by friendship
    and earthly goods consumed

    Said painter to those gathered,
    "My pallete breathes, oh brethren,
    and foils my expert eyes"

    "You fool," to painter quipped the poet
    "Your grass is dyed the deepest red
    and earthly green your skies"

    "No bother" painter said to poet
    pretentious and presuming
    "for art is not as the world appears
    as artists, change is but our doing

    so let the skies bleed vermillion
    and let the seas run black with ink
    for this is a vision I've seen while dreaming
    and it is correct, methinks."

    Poet scoffed, and began a sonnet
    his eyes marking the locked door
    but frustration grew in his deepest sentiments
    "there's nothing to write that hasn't been before!"

    the bible is full of psalms and proverbs
    the torah thick with ageless wisdom
    and so with a few quite strokes,
    he offered "I am infinite, and thus unwritten"

    The pianist was mid arpeggio,
    his mind's mouth shouting "allegro, allegro!"
    and said he nothing, but just kept playing
    "Silence is I" in C

    and silence he was indeed my friends
    a statue perched above a sea of keys
    his fingers working furiously
    to speak that which he couldn't, you see

    and thus, in observation we find
    the painter ruining heaven's skies
    a poet touting untold lies
    and a muted pianist's silence tried

    Thirty-five-and-one Lines to Prove That life Is What You Make It

    Inspiration came through the smile of a pop-star
    because she played piano like you
    and said that she hated her record deal
    hated her pretty clothes
    hated the boys that loved her, like me.

    Sorrow came in red from the sirens
    and in yellow for the line she should have never crossed
    cell phones can be distracting
    no voice message can wait
    unfortunately neither can traffic

    Love came in waves from the spine out
    as the powder dissolved, bitter on her tongue
    as her fingers danced through his minefield
    messpot, sex hair, bed head buckshot
    and then the sun rose and his name was vaporized

    Anger came from deep inside where it sleeps
    because his father put it there when he was born
    and then left for New York
    "we all deserve something, so I'll take what's mine," he thought
    and pulled the trigger

    Joy came in plastic from three stories up
    down the elevator shaft
    down the hallway
    down the trachea
    back up to the fifth floor through the vents

    Justice rang from the pound of the gavel
    and the sound of his footsteps across the hung jury
    He had broken twelve necks that day
    and relief was his
    but it belonged in the back row with her father or in the tomb with her

    Happiness came as miniature horsemen
    riding the first rays of sun
    They burst easily through my window
    and greeted me with news of a great oppurtunity
    and shouted the joys of the awakening earth into my ear

    shut the fuck up, said I.

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    Love Song I've Never Sang for a Lover I've Never Loved (Settle for Satellites)

    well I feel the winds shifting
    they're stirring things up
    I've got a bag packed
    and change for the bus
    I'll tell 'em all I'm leaving
    got better things to see
    better people to know,
    better places to be
    so I'm headed north to Bangor
    with a smile on my face
    oh, old cold New England for a change of pace

    and I'll see you tonight
    with your hand in mine
    and your face in the moonlight
    I've got a feeling that's alright with you
    ain't got the stars on my side
    so we just might
    have to settle for the satellites
    and I don't mind
    no I don't mind

    well I see the sun setting
    as you shake of the cold
    but you don't give a damn,
    never do what you're told
    tell 'em all you don't care
    got plans of your own
    blueprints of our lives
    a couple stories we stole
    so we're headed south to Richmond
    on the 7:10 train
    got a pillow for the journey and a flask for the pain

    and I'll see you tonight
    with your hand in mine
    and your face in the light by the riverside
    I've got a feelin' that's alright with you
    and there's clouds in the sky
    so we just might
    have to settle for satellites
    and I don't mind
    no I don't mind


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    Jet Airplanes

    Well I've seen fires burning through the streets
    swam in floods that drown democracy
    I've felt the earth shifting beneath my feet
    witnessed the birth of things that shouldn't be
    bullet trains and
    jet airplanes
    machine guns in the pouring rain
    and shopping malls where fields of grain
    should be

    but there's no redemption for a
    bitter heart
    never finish anything
    we start
    the traintracks tore the
    Earth apart
    you see?
    you see it don't you?

    well I've felt winds more ancient than love and hate
    saw peace in the eyes of hurricanes
    because inside the storm, the Earth reclaims
    everything it owned before we came
    ebbing tides and
    shifting fault lines, the sunrise
    the azure glow of ancient skies

    and they can't go back or
    turn around
    made a metropolis of
    my hometown
    when the city walls come
    crashing down
    you'll know
    I swear to God you'll know </TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE>

    and why not wrap up with some stream of consciousness. Wrote this one during my five gram trip.

    We are in Hell, and there is no denying it. Haven't you ever felt that primal instinct tugging at your waistband? Begging you to drop the clothes and run freely? Have you ever sat behind a desk, frustrated at the material that for some reason you're supposed to be learning, and realized that it's completely useless?

    A man goes to college to learn how to be an electrical engineer.

    A monk goes silent to learn how to be a better man.

    Who does libra say weighs more?

    Cars go too fast.
    Exactly who are these bills paying?
    Why am I wearing this shirt?
    Why are so many people dying every day from violence over drugs and money?
    Why do I feel the need to impress her?
    Why does that man say he's a better christian than me?
    I'm not the one judging for God.
    Why does he get to be in charge?
    Is he even in charge?
    Why does your tone make me angry?
    why do you like to make me angry?
    why am I watching television?
    why do I need stimulation like this
    with an entire world around me?

    Because we are in Hell.

    We have built our own cycles and processes, mocking Earth to make our lives easier. But easier for what? because the only reason we need the internet is to know what the weather in San Diego will be, and the only reason we need to know that is because we'll be there in 4 hours on our airplane. This world was not meant to be conquered and we have crossed a line drawn by the finger of mother Earth.

    You need to know your math because one day you might want to be an engineer.

    For what?

    All we learn are things that we have created. Thousands and thousands of years on this Earth and all we have proved is that humanity is the biggest con ever.

    When the lights go out and your electric blanket stops working, you will wish you had learned to build a fire instead of a circuit board.

    When technology forsakes mankind, we will be forced to experience the Earth the way its mother intended it to be experienced, and we will not have the oppurtunity to re-build our comfortable infrastructure. The old farmer laughed at by the teens with their Ipods will become the most sacred being alive. The fisherman who "totally doesn't realize he could just go to the store and like, buy some fish" will inherit the Earth.

    We should still be sitting around fires. We would still know what love is, we would still know what life was about.

    Next time your debit card stops working, or your car breaks down, or the plane you're riding in crashes, stop and look around in that moment when you are absolutely stranded by technology, and pity yourself. See the world that you were meant to survive.

    We have built Hell from paradise.
  2. This whole language based on the
    Similarity of experiences.
    Do you dare to reach the few?
    Or simply embrace the masses and the trends?
    Save your receipt;
    When my words send a chill down my own back;
    How can I guarantee they'll find their way back,
    To their purpose; back to you?

    So now you tell me;
    Am I worth my weight in words?
    Or will you try to convince me;
    That I'd rather be worth this weight in gold?

    Interpret the critics for subjects you don't care for,
    And the acclaim for what feels true,
    and closest to the home you grew up in.
    Not at all what I intended,
    Not getting through to you.
    Hey, at least you feel connected.
    Though you haven't got a clue.

    So now prove to me;
    That I'm worth my weight in words
    Or just you try to convince me;
    That I'd rather be worth this weight in gold

    Through this block
    And find some meaning,
    Something special penetrating,
    Through this suggested phase of questioning and spineless
    Thinking and constant re-thinking,
    Stopping right back at,
    The same block,

    So now you tell me;
    Am I worth my weight in words?
    Or will you try to convince me;
    That I'd rather be worth this weight in gold?
  3. bump so we can get some feedback.

    come on blades, I know you're feelin' the funky poetry vibes.

    you can just hear that bongo a'thumpin can't you?
  4. mannnnnn why is it always so hard to get replys in the AC?
  5. GREAT! Great stuff guys or gals...If your feinding for some poetry, get on youtube.com and watch all the old Def Poetry Jams!

    I'll be back at another time to drop some of my stuff...


  6. because everyone wants to be reviewed and no-one wants to review. I gotta tell you that first poem of yours is spectacular. it's hard to believe you were high when you made those (I actually googled a couple of lines to make sure they werent borrowed :D) . I only read the first one, and it's really good. try and publish them on a site that's not full of stoners if you want some good feedback.
  7. Just an ole' toker,
    Never done no one, no harm.

    Won't drop no trippy sugar cubes,
    Or bang needles in his arm.

    Won't pop no ups or downs,
    Won't snort no more cocaine,

    Just likes to burn the herb, superb
    Relax, and ease his pain.

    When they showed him "Reefer Madness"
    He thought it was just a joke,

    It never scared him one damn bit,
    or made him give up smoke.

    So he grows a little garden,
    Just to take care of his needs.

    Cause it says right in the Bible,
    we can have all things from seed.

    Won't believe he's doin' dope,
    cause he thinks "Drugs are bad, M'kay"

    So he never feels a twinge of guilt,
    When he fires up every day.

    He believes in God and Country,
    But don't believes he's really free,

    When the Lawman can arrest you,
    just for smokin' an old weed!:smoke::smoke:
  8. I liked the last two ones the best. Very passionate and well written. :D

    I haven't written poetry in forever...
  9. Thanks for the responses, guys.

    Skywalker I dig what you're saying about reviews and being reviewed, that's why I always to my best to drop through and give some opinions.

    :smoke::smoke::smoke::smoke: I love GC
  10. sunlight bright on sunlight bland,
    far not far on closer now,
    present is a present to the future,
    let the past work itself in.

    dull is sharp upon never-shall-be,
    but what is will always wait.
    go on and move and stay on and rest,
    opposites meet and shake


    deep not down on surface calls,
    write not prose on bathroom walls,
    for in the in lies out, and let over lie

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