Topic RSS | Reply to topic
Author Post

IambicMess


Member

Posted Sun Nov 8th, 2009 7:32pm Post subject: IambicMess's Dirty Laundry

Hi y'all
I've been doing a little writing recently, which I'm fairly novice to (though I have posted some bits and peices here before) and I'd love some objective feedback. I've listed a fair few examples but please don't feel obliged to read all (or indeed any) of them. If you see something you like (or absolutely hate to the point that you'd like to xerox it and shove it down my throat) lemme hear ya holler
Mix of poetry and lyrics, it should be clear which is which, enjoy!:

Turmoil of the Great Bay

Here the shining swells the leaping surf
Where wizened skippers’ oil tankers glide
Across the endless dunes of dancing brine,
Where silver sunlight shivers into pieces
And tumbles like the phoenix. Down.
So jubilant the waves that ebb and surge
And swallow up the silver-speckled spray:
‘We wish! We wish! We wish! We wish! We wish!’

‘But what? But why?’ the seagulls cry and fly
Across the blazing eye that winks and crashes
Down into the ocean’s flank and draws
His blood. It seeps and spreads ‘till all is red
And all is dead and quiet. And all is quiet.
The waves that settle on the shore lie sleeping.

Automata

Gears wound tight and walking upright. But they hold the key, the key to me.
Each step is a gift of this clockwork machine, each beat of the heart synthetic, routine.
These fingers that turn point to the truth, written in the clank of a silver tooth.
Every motion repeats and plays in around. A pendula’s breath is a quiet sound.
A pendula’s breath is a quiet sound.

No intention but purest oscillation. And a clockwork machine’s blind devotion.
Simple escapement holds it in place: a twelve point compass written on its face.
You hate to hear it sing to the dawn, when sunlight creeps up the front lawn.
You’ll wake up one morning and find it unwound and a pendula’s breath is a quiet sound.
A pendula’s breath is a quiet sound.

In the voice of the clockwork machine, nothing is now and always has been.
A pendula’s swinging close to the ground and a pendula’s breath is a quiet sound.

Gears wound tight and walking upright. But they hold the key, the key to me.
Each step is a gift of this clockwork machine, each beat of the heart synthetic, routine.
These fingers that turn point to the truth, written in the clank of a silver tooth.
Every motion repeats and plays in around. A pendula’s breath is a quiet sound.
A pendula’s breath is a quiet sound.

I Love to be Loved

(Foyle's Young Poet Award commended this'un *BLATANT AUTO-ARSE-KISSERY*
So Days slip oily through my cracked eyelids and encompass
The listless quiet. And now gentlemen, here is your fucking rhyme.

She is the numbers on my clock, the notches on my compass.
Without her I am wandering, at a loss, and cannot tell the time.

I am smiling now; ignore the fingers crossed behind my back.
Maybe later you can let me in, though now I can never, ever win.
“He’s much too clever, far too thin.”

It is restless here. The edge of the table cuts into my arms
And they ache.
She taps my forehead with a nail as sharp as morning.
When she speaks her voice breaks and without warning
Memories fall like leaves, and are scattered on the wind.
Leaving my mind, my mind, my mind, my mind, my mind
Bare.

Beneath a canopy of steel stars
On Broadway and Times Square, we idly chattered.
Laughing in the neon glow of MARS
And Nike and Vodaphone. Not that it mattered.

(Mister Eliot you had it wrong)
August is the cruellest month of all.
Printed figures cry: “This is where you belong!”
And come October’s chill, you heed the call.
A sickness beyond sickness, take your heart
In hand, and feel it flutter like a bird.
Take the slip, it tells you when you start,
You made it. Good work. Get out. Not a word.
The clock, ticks. The world, turns. And you,
Leave. They are never, never, never, through.

Sing for me you empty things,
Sing the way a mother sings,
Find an ounce of breath
And wrap it as my birthday present.
‘Yours in the ranks of death’
It’s you I resent.

Insomnia

Just feeling low, feeling pessimistic.
A daydream, a clown, all made up in smeared lipstick.
I’ll make a corsage of this mirage; my incentives are inventions:
Of the brain.
Dreaming forever, I twirl like a feather
In a hurricane.

(Seemingly dreaming, my fantasies conflate
Seemingly dreaming, no restraint, no restraint!)

It’s been a long day and night is dawning.
I am tired all the time, I’m restless, my bed is calling
But I cannot sleep. I wander in a waking dream,
Unpick this seam.
One before heth, out comes my seventh breath,
A pale scream.

(Seemingly dreaming, my fantasies conflate
Seemingly dreaming, no restraint, no restraint!)

Just looking in, standing at the gate
Always on edge, teetering on this ledge, this transitory state.
In their bloodshot rings, these eyes sting.
A funny thing
If I draw a curtain, I know for certain
My soul will sing.

(Seemingly dreaming, my fantasies conflate
Seemingly dreaming, no restraint, no restraint!)

Faint music.

Faint.

Stepping Stones

There are seven levels and heaven is a stepping stone.
One foot in the door, another in the grave.
Russian roulette in the terminal ward, nobody is saved.
We are dancing in clear water.
What do you know?
Thrown from your axis: eagles fall from the sky,
All men are equal, all men die.
What do you know?

(If you could see what I see, you would sing!
A sparrow’s song.
And I will show you fear in the voiceless Spring,
And you’ll do what’s wrong.)

Your words cast long shadows, they will eclipse the sun.
A desperate mandate with so much to prove.
Will you pluck God’s heartstrings, will mountains move?
Sunlight at five hundred fathoms.
What have you done?
Is that just you or do I smell a rat?
A golden handshake? I’ll drink to that.
What have you done?

(If you could see what I see you would sing!
A sparrow’s song.
And I will show you fear in the voiceless Spring,
And you’ll do what’s wrong.)

Tread lightly on my fingers; they play your victory anthem.
Ear to the wire, can you hear them pray?
A matrix of mistrust, you’re watching every day.
The skeletons of April.
Will you succumb?
We’re all running on pay-by hours
Ruined tenants wilt like flowers.
Will you succumb?

(If you could see what I see you would sing!
A sparrow’s song.
And I will show you fear in the voiceless Spring,
And you’ll do what’s wrong.)

Animation

You say you’re an artist? Your canvas is blank
Draw me a mouth and I will offer thanks.
Shade in my heart, so I can confide,
Sketch out the arms that hold you to my side.
Draw me with feet that march on command
A ring for your finger, etched in my hand.

(Alone at your easel, your wrists start to ache
Twelve frames a second, how long will it take:
My clothes in your colours, my words in your font
And I’m moving just the way you want?)

Erase off my gut, a body to be framed
Paint on some biceps so you won’t be ashamed.
Taller or shorter, bearded or shaven clean
Dressed to impress, my appearance pristine.
Your pencil is gospel and I will obey,
Or else I’ll be crumpled, and thrown away.

(Alone at your easel, your wrists start to ache
Twelve frames a second, how long will it take:
My clothes in your colours, my words in your font
And I’m moving just the way you want?)

An animation!
Always in motion.
An optical illusion.
You’d cope with me if you could rotoscope me.

Rain_Again

Outside, pallid people lope by, pallid faces,
Glaring. Twelve eyes, black and all around.
It’s ceaseless, their sleeveless hearts are pounding
Playing in around and, pushing minutes by.
Their twins are hanging on by their soles,
Skidding, splashing through the cold.
Pouring on the swelling masses,
Dirty water fills their glasses.

(Rain is rain and it will fall down,
Rain is rain and it will pour down,
Rain is rain and it will roar down,
Rain is rain and it will rain on you.)

Despondent, they go by I see them, they are drowning,
Dreaming, of coffee by the stove.
It’s painful, beneath matted hair
Disdainful, glances lurk there.
A melody with every raindrop,
Strumming out its double-stop
Somehow weeping tearlessly,
Singing gospel peerlessly.

(Rain is rain and it will fall down,
Rain is rain and it will pour down,
Rain is rain and it will roar down,
Rain is rain and it will rain on you.)

Pale fingers, truth untold,
Laughing like a common cold!

(Rain is rain and it will fall down,
Rain is rain and it will pour down,
Rain is rain and it will roar down,
Rain is rain and it will rain on you.)

That's enough I think


Back to top

tito


Member *

Posted Sun Nov 8th, 2009 8:57pm Post subject: IambicMess's Dirty Laundry

I like the 'She is the numbers on my clock' the best. I do like the others too.

I shy away a lot from commenting on either poetry or lyrics because I just don't know enough about them.

I know very bad poetry, most people do, but I worry about saying something trite I suppose.

But anyway, it's thumbs and the one I pointed out, very good.


Back to top