Hello and goodbye
The seasons do fly
I’ve brought you a candle
For those lonely nights
Torrents of sky
Pour on your island
Serendipitous castle
As it travels through time
Do not forget me
O, beautiful star
I will come to get you
With the molochs to vie
Fuck you.
No thanks.
Why not?
Because.
Well, fuck me then.
No thanks, I’m fine.
I didn’t mean you
You crazy kook
Go fuck yourself
And your momma too
If these are the submissions, I think only Ecmandu’s first poem (in three posts) should count.
_
Agree…
I’ll DM a few of the poets on here, to see if they’d like to make a submission…
The poet and the poem are like a river, where the shallows and the depths intermingle,
The flow at times, so brave to venture for torrential rains hazardous a journey theu fathom, yet the undertow, that fauna and the gleaming silver that their eyes in schools swarm and are carried,
Against upward the stream the lost little one
Tries it’s mother to recognize before the swarm races
The largesse of the emerald
bay but alas, it’s sooner
then then thought: and later than,
that the forever little one the
kingfishers has to brave alone
Dusk has dettled, she is mowhere, and the bluest mist firmed betweext sky and flow of the church in water snaking almost as the fauns whisper.
The lazy river snakes down from the towering
columns whitened from the long foamed journey from up above,
Where the snowed under schools reveal a frantic tiny salmon desperate to find his mother, in a forgotten school, somewhere lost along the way, in braving the long Alaskan way.
She’ll never reach her mow that the vast expanse reveals it’s forging green depth to the shallow languid ford that gently helped her along the coastline,
But now her mother gone somewhere behind the vast past stretches of forgotten land, she has become just another gleaming steel like the ones
to bait her long ago.
That was yesterday in her reel time and now here, suddenly is the drop,
where the schools into higher ground
but deeper still
Only the fauna and the jumgle’s moaning to remind.
Then morning breaks with a burst, and nothing remains as before. He is still.
Well ok evidently we have to accept ongoing submissions now.
Submission and attrition
Attribution is once dedicated, twice relayed
And thrice forgotten
On the froth of the silver lightning
Comes a sky filled with eyes
White, brown, yellow
It screetches
And the pantomime ends
Few schools where the preacher
Can make his ends
Even fewer still
Where the crooked path bends
It sends a chill up the spine
All the way down into the cosmos
Where the insects are chattering
And the mist makes its bed
Sorry, I don’t mean to break the chain or the vibe or whatever, but this is incredibly good.
Between the clamor of cheers and booz, the Author bows at the podium
Upon opening of the envelope, the MC hammers out who the winner is.
Or tries, as a disheveled poetess grabs the the paper savagely out of his hands and physically shreds it into Timmy pieces that fall to the stage floor.
Then stomps on it and sets it on fire.
“Ha,” she mumbles , “Another one bites the dust” as a gjanitor sweeps it up and throws it into the trash.
The pretender. a desperate soul intent on destroying competition, haughtily , Brunhilda likemarches out of the stage, left everyone in amazement and shock - to the tune of fading strings , harmonically vibrating orchestral hall to the tune of Gotterdamerung
Stormy days, stormy weather
The cataracts descend upon the fellows
As they scope out the land with lint and golden letters
The main man took the stand and made a case between humbleness and better
So scattered the debris of the highlands having been decided that numbness was a trend setter
Belying the fact was the enormity of neverending popsicles and cans set upon strangely ornamented fetters
Inclusive of maniacs and tramps who had flocked from every corner in search of scathing promises and inculcators
The Earth could not bear it
The math not there
Calcination
Oh well,
Stan
Alright Meno… apparently you want to bring it.
——————
If you win over another, everyone loses
If everyone wins, nobody loses
Competition is a sin
Begin
To understand
The stakes at hand
And you will cease to be
What you project upon me
I do this for art
Art isn’t there to compete
Once you know this, you’ll be complete
Thanks .Ec. For bringing it on.
The fact is, poetry is non competitive literally, and the only requirement is honesty.
The so called judging goes to levels that touch the honest apprAisal of what the verse is and how it literally translates into it’s meaning.
I would rather not be competing, without lying, so that I may be with others and not be a lone star.
But then a balance between the two is conceivable.
Not yo forget the kid soiled into the slavish backward reminder, that when very little, stymied into submissive mediocraty not to excel so that he belong
Typically regeneritive and yes , two can forge ahead to gather those that silver foam the hidden treasure.
Soled down river to the highest bidder
(flowing slow, sneakily kissing as it turns around the bend)
Cause, course, we come up for air to gather up that, which genre can change
Into, suddenly she took off her courset and then as exasperatingly birthing out from half shall shockingly exposing beautifully and flawfully;
and asked to engorge us into the twisting , in the night’s fading thrusts, into the eternity of her .
The mermaid washed down .though forgetful of that, which missing : the lower halves indelible lack forces the climb upward to those that round up other sources!
Still laying there not forgetting what’s essential and with. bravura looked straight ahead and spit it out ,xxxx man don’t you think can do and dine on that, and divinely stretch out on granite fair to slumber until next ship of fools, ventures near the coast.
Hail Eros .
…
The participation trophy generation…
No retards left behind
Ahh… this is funny promethean…
…Because you think you can see.
Everyone except few and me have psychopathy
It’s on a spectrum or continuum and it is a mental illness
Not because they can’t function in society, but because of how they make empaths feel…
Psychopaths can’t even make each other feel decent
People like sheep act out what existence is, and existence violates everyone consent
Those who live worthwhile lives, don’t parrot existence, rather, they strive for something greater than the poor parrotive cognition that promethean only knows.
Oh, I suppose, on another front speaking of continuum, are we still in compatetive mode? Or has the spell been broken?
What do you think?
Should we submit more or do we call this done?
Or do we call it practice and follow through with the original terms?
This ^^^