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Trite poetry ahead

Sepulchritude Forum » The Absinthe Forum » Arts & Other Philosophical Sundries » Trite poetry ahead « Previous Next »

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Pastor of Muppets (Emmy)
Absinthe Mafia
Username: Emmy

Post Number: 96
Registered: 9-2001

Posted on Sunday, April 27, 2003 - 1:08 pm:   Edit PostPrint Post

been typing up all my old stuff... here's a little ditty i found amusing, thought i'd share hehe

miss understanding

I woke up groggy and dishevelled this fine gray San Francisco morning
got outta bed, stretched, stepped over the body on the floor, stretched again
lazily over to the nightstand and lit a stick of incense: sandalwood
stretched again... oh my aching back!
cracked my neck a couple times before bending down at the card catalogue
opened the middle drawer, took out a tape, put it in the stereo, pressed play
listening to Into the Eternal Depths of Sorrow by a band called Solitude Aeturnus
looking at my hands stained red, the dry liquid flaking off
stepped over the body, sat on the bed
leaning back looking at the ceiling seeing droplets of red everywhere
sat up, stared at the mirror...
shards of reflection lay scattered across the red stained carpet
poetry covered the walls thick like milk... or blood
looking at my hands, the mirror shards, the body, red stains everywhere
blood? body?
She woke up, stretched, looked at me...
"What the fuck? Did you just scream?"
said the blood bathed corpse
"Jesus... get a grip man..."
spoke the undead creature before me
staring at my blood stained hands
"Oh god... it's only fingerpaint, remember?"
she said again
before lopping off my head with a pillow...

October 14, 1993
c. 1993 Emiliano Lee
Althea (Rosietwobears)
le Vicomte
Username: Rosietwobears

Post Number: 54
Registered: 10-2002

Posted on Sunday, April 27, 2003 - 4:18 am:   Edit PostPrint Post

Guilty Pleasures

Pleasure so twisted
I can scarcely enjoy it,
sweetly bruised, like soft fruit,
love the way purple looks on me;
Tail twixt my legs and whimpering,
dripping wet with guilt and lust,
sweaty haired dirty lipstick smile
smeared across white cheeks,
mascara running as I cry out -
now I'm blind on my knees;
Fear of my secret leaking out
and peeking out and being seen,
but I lose all control
when the fire starts to burn,
nothing matters anymore,
that wind blows wild within me
fanning flames inside my head,
and Oh, it feels so fucking good,
so good, I almost wish I was dead.
- R. Althea Metz

2003 R. Althea Metz

Sitting Here Surrounded

Sitting here surrounded
by yellow -
Force fed
the alleged color of happiness,
The color of daffodils
sunshine and
baby chicks;
Quickly becoming
the color of fat cells
jaundiced babies and
the canary, dead at the back of a mine shaft.

Sitting here surrounded
by red -
Dripping with
the color of supposed passion,
The color of roses
lingerie and
cardboard hearts;
Rapidly becoming
the color of spilt wine
bloody hands and
rage, comming to a head.

Sitting here surrounded
by blue -
Immersed in
the pretended color of serenity,
The color of violets
seashores and
calm summer skies;
Swiftly becoming
the color of frozen limbs
stillborns and
suffocation, gasping for air.
- R. Althea Metz

2003 R. Althea Metz
Absinthe maketh the heart grow fonder
Pataphysician (Pataphysician)
Elitist Bastard
Username: Pataphysician

Post Number: 509
Registered: 5-2001
Posted on Wednesday, March 26, 2003 - 7:22 pm:   Edit PostPrint Post

Slowly the day began to die behind the sugar-loaf, and at last the girl pointed ahead through the bushes and he could see a long spit of sand running out into the lake. Otherwise it would naturally happen that corn, when it is crushed by the dire force of the grindstone, would often show some sign of blood, and that blood would exude when we crush between stones any of those things that derive material from our bodies. There were thick bushes of sea-grape along its spine and, halfway, perhaps a hundred yards from the shore, the remains of a thatched hut. Similarly, grass and water ought often to emit sweet drops of the same flavour as the milk in the udders of fleecy ewes. It looked a reasonably attractive place to spend the night and it was well protected by the water on both sides. When clods of soil are crumbled, finely divided particles of different plants and grains and leaves ought to become visible, lurking among the soil. The wind had died and the water was soft and inviting. When sticks are snapped, ashes and smoke ought to be revealed, and tiny hidden fires. How heavenly it was going to be to take off their filthy shirts and wash in the lake, and, after the hours of squelching through the mud and stench of the river and the marsh, be able to lie down on the hard dry sand! But observation plainly shows that none of these things happens. The sun blazed yellowly and sank behind the mountain. It is clear therefore that one sort of thing is not intermingled with another in this way, but there must be in things a mixture of invisible seeds that are common to many sorts. The day was still alive at the eastern tip of the island, but the black shadow of the sugar-loaf was slowly marching across the lake and would soon reach out and kill that too. "But," you may object, "it often happens in mountainous country that nearby tops of tall trees are rubbed together by the force of a gale till suddenly they blossom out into a blaze of flame." The frogs started up, louder than in Jamaica, until the thick dusk was shrill with them. Agreed. Across the lake a giant bull frog began to drum. And yet there is no fire embedded in the wood. The eerie sound was something between a tom-tom and an ape's roar. What it does contain is a multitude of seeds of heat, which start a conflagration in the forest only when they have been concentrated by rubbing. It sent out short messages that were suddenly throttled. If there were ready-made flame concealed in the wood, the fires could not be hidden for any length of time; they would spread havoc through the woodland and burn the trees to ashes. Soon it fell silent. Now do you see the point of my previous remark, that it makes a great difference in what combinations and positions the same elements occur and what motions they mutually pass on and take over, so that with a little reshuffling the same ones may produce forests and fires? It had found what it had sent for. This is just how the words themselves are formed, by a little reshuffling of the letters, when we pronounce 'forests' and 'fires' as two distinct utterances.
Althea (Rosietwobears)
Username: Rosietwobears

Post Number: 33
Registered: 10-2002

Posted on Wednesday, March 19, 2003 - 2:07 pm:   Edit PostPrint Post

yeah... make sure you tell that to the board responsible for judging the walt whitman award

(slips you a $20)
Absinthe maketh the heart grow fonder
Pataphysician (Pataphysician)
Elitist Bastard
Username: Pataphysician

Post Number: 498
Registered: 5-2001
Posted on Wednesday, March 19, 2003 - 2:04 pm:   Edit PostPrint Post

Of course it is sometimes more of a risk not to accept chances which are necessary to take but I have done this so far, trying to let the situation take its own course. If they, for example, say let's cut our losses and you say we are going to go down the road to see if we can cut our losses and no more blackmail and all the rest. If it is true, as the gypsy says, that they expected me to kill Pablo then I should have done that. And then the thing blows cutting Bob and the rest to pieces. But it was never clear to me that they did expect that. You would never recover from that, John. For a stranger to kill where he must work with the people afterwards is very bad. That's right. It may be done in action, and it may be done if backed by sufficient discipline, but in this case I think it would be very bad, although it was a temptation and seemed a short and simple way. It is better to fight it out. But I do not believe anything is that short nor that simple in this country and, while I trust the woman absolutely, I could not tell how she would react to such a drastic thing. Then you see that's the other thing. One dying in such a place can be very ugly, dirty and repugnant. It's better to fight it out and not let people testify, and so forth. You could not tell how she would react. And now, on the other hand, we realize that we have these weaknesses, -- that we have these weaknesses -- in terms of blackmail. Without the woman there is no organization nor any discipline here and with the woman it can be very good. There are two routes. It would be ideal if she would kill him, or if the gypsy would (but he will not) or if the sentry, Agustin, would. One is to figure out how to cut the losses and minimize the human impact and get you up and out and away from it in any way. Anselmo will if I ask it, though he says he is against all killing. In a way it would never come back to haunt you. He hates him, I believe, and he already trusts me and believes in me as a representative of what he believes in. That is one general alternative. Only he and the woman really believe in the Republic as far as I can see; but it is too early to know that yet. The other is to go down the road, just hunker down, fight it at every corner, every turn, don't let people testify -- cover it up is what we really
are talking about.
Loner (Loner)
Username: Loner

Post Number: 20
Registered: 2-2003
Posted on Wednesday, March 19, 2003 - 7:34 am:   Edit PostPrint Post

Not trite at all. A genuine poet!
Althea (Rosietwobears)
Username: Rosietwobears

Post Number: 32
Registered: 10-2002

Posted on Tuesday, March 18, 2003 - 11:56 pm:   Edit PostPrint Post


Silent death
to any mouse
sixteen paws
creep through my house
little men
in furry suits
graceful with
Egyptian roots
fuzzy feet
on all my tables
bite marks adorn
lines and cables
keep the plants
out of reach
four times four
with five claws each.
- R. Althea Metz

2000 R. Althea Metz

Back To The Sea

These rivulets
won't help me flow
back to the sea;
I need a river
gathering speed
with violent rapids
and water white,
me round
in my thin-skinned canoe,
breaking me
again and again
against it's hidden stones;
yet here I am
on the cold
tiled floor,
watching these
pititiful creeks
and dreaming
of rivers
that run red,
back to the sea.
- R. Althea Metz

2001 R. Althea Metz


Have you ever wanted
so badly that you shake?
The temptation is thick
while the ice is still thin,
I can't stop this shiver.

Spilling my drink
before it reaches my lips,
a teeth chattering
stealthy earthquake,
an uncontrollable quiver.

Biting my tongue,
so that you can't make out
what I call to you
from the banks
of a nearly frozen river.
- R. Althea Metz

2002 R. Althea Metz


listening to the muted tick
(tock) of the clock
time keeps passing me by
silently slipping slithering stealthy

everything yellowed
(turning brown) I look around,
it happened without my notice
behind backs barely breathing

I brush off the dust;
something (sly) catches my eye
- a face outside the window
plainly peeking panicked peering

an older woman, somehow familiar
(possibly mad) she looks so sad,
almost the face of my mother
manic melancholia maybe maternal

with eyes that are hard
(to meet) we miss a beat
hungrily watching each other
greedy gazes growing grotesque

it's only as she opens her mouth
(to scream) like in a dream
that I realise the window is a mirror
splitting shattered senses snap
and . I . fall
and . fall
- R. Althea Metz

2003 R. Althea Metz

seeing as its been so eerily quiet here i thought id share some of my infamously bad poetry (even if it just gets slagged off its better than the deathly silence thats been in the air)... i hope that arts & philosophical sundries was the right place.
Absinthe maketh the heart grow fonder

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