Sign in to follow this  
Bosun

Poetic stuff

Recommended Posts

That's hella good. It's really making me think and imagine this complex story and relationships and it's all super neat, descriptive enough to be so interesting but not too tight to have only one interpretation. Really, a triumph in writing to be able to create that effect in my opinion.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

A man of great turns,

Insight and growing knowledge,

Guides us in meta.

Of humor and taste,

Passion with reserved calmness,

And such acceptance.

Works with his three kin,

Learning, living, loving in,

His Vampiric form.

A crazy flying,

Darkened girl of free spirit,

A boundless Raven.

Living for Ivy,

Especially her cooking,

And tender spirit.

While their kin Samuel,

Sits tall, watchful on his throne,

Properly humble.

Living together,

In a wonderland made from,

Eccentric brimstone.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

That's great! I absolutely love it.

 

Thanks for the poem Bosun!


"My lover's got humour,

She's the giggle at a funeral,

Knows everybody's disapproval,

I should've worshipped her sooner."

 

Host to Samuel, RavenIvy, and Olivia.

 

CERCA TROVA

 

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

44.NM “62831853072 Transmissions Received and Lost ”

 

Cordial greetings of a foreign tongue, silvery characters on a wooden sign, hung upon the docks of the island’s only village, nestling it’s tiny shops in the sanded rocky slopes and charmingly petits insulae, formally meet us at the shores étrangères.

 

We five: myself, the siblings and the lovers, browsed their antiques and their arcane, resting in dark twilit rooms enceased in emerald moss, hosted by a bilingual elderly couple of our words and their own, with a roasting of duck for our evening palate and toast with eggs for our morning tastings, with books for our waiting pleasure that we did not care to browse.

 

That morning we walked North up the beach and cliff trails to the plains and fields, talking about the ghosts of our pasts, foxing and hawking at our mishappenings and failures to weave jokes and pass over the inevitable.

 

Past the flats and into the foothills, we marched to the fork: Left and West into the woods and longer, distant, farther North, while Right and East was the looming, rusted, decrepit watch tower of tenser times and lawless dictatorships: a towering pagoda of scaffolding to a glorified radio that still receives, but only to the ears of the rascals that make their nightly visits there to entertain, entertain, entertain.

 

Thinking ourselves as soaring and majestic shrikes, fresh from our hawking, we marched Left to move North.

 

The siblings quipped, venomous and fighting over petty, petty, petty while the lovers apologized and swooned over petty, petty, petty things, while I listened with half-ears to absorb what I had to to stay alive in the conversations that would evidently last for days, but keep enough sense in the air to appreciate the wilds as its proper spectacle.

 

Jumping from a rock to a patch of dirt and moss, I behold the sensation of flight, then falling, then firm softness between myself and my world while the siblings trip and scrape their shins and the lovers insist that the other should be given the privilege of going first.

 

North enough to the point knifing out into the sea on its oblique cliffs that made its fame through its wartime mannerisms, long forgotten of course, there being too many identical moments to cram into that fine space reserved for sympathy without empathy.

 

From a strange dream in Paris came a chance stop in Milan, birthing this notion of finding and coming here, to be awed, harrowed and forgotten like our obituaries, which for us we at least have the grace of having them written.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Oh Fabricius, an inconsequence to you, but where force of science and arts are yours to question and violate with reason, a lesser question must always be asked elsewhere. So far into the pains of petty rational ideas, it comes into analysis of the gentle caress of my canid friend. There he is, called away from his adventures of rolling in the dirt, playing with game, chasing birds, eating at rind and his sport. The question is not of whether or not he is deserving or if I am willing, but the design of how I seek to go about my actions. To gently scratch behind the ears or beneath the chin? A rub of the back, the belly, the ribs? A quick pat on the heat, a stroke around the collar, a kiss on the nose? What combination is appropriate for today’s affection? It must be some summation to a point, a consensus reached by us both. Upon that I am sure I will be informed of him when we get there.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Uh, does a quickly written two-page scribble count as poetic? I sure hope it does, because that's what I'm going to post.

 

Peccata

 

In the way the word "soul",

Resembles the word "sold",

 

And in the way sin

Resembles the dreams of sanctum,

 

My and their silhouettes

Recognize yours to be true.

 

It's the irony of

Chaos and law, you see, that drives me away,

 

It's the precise stupidity

Of thinking you'll be rid of one

 

When you think you chose one

Over the other, or,

 

The scattered idiocy of presuming,

That stupidity could ever be precise.

 

It's the outright egoisticism, you see,

Of the assumption that something greater than the perceptive of "us" and "them"

 

Could be watered down to the opposition that seperates day and night,

Or perhaps, you're blind?

 

So you are, and we have been told,

Of the songs that sing

 

About the obviously objective subjectiveness

Of good and evil.

 

The easiest way to put it, is by saying,

The blindness consumes us too, and battling it,

 

Is akin to being blatantly ignorant

To the fact that a life devoted to fighting lust,

 

Is just lusting,

But lusting after not lusting.

 

In the way greed resembles green,

And the word "human"

Resembles the world "animal",

 

You can call me,

You may call me,

Whatever you want to call me.

 

But it is easier to use the word "person",

Or even animal, or even human,

Or even devil.

 

Because, like I mentioned before,

The soul I carry inside

 

Uncannily resembles the word "sold".

And, just like all the sinners are saints,

 

Even Lucifer can be in need of some restraint.


Despite what was told you, I do not like committing crimes. 

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Thank you. Me and host didn't think it could compete with anything in this thread, but it's great to see people enjoy our BS.


Despite what was told you, I do not like committing crimes. 

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Join the conversation

You can post now and register later. If you have an account, sign in now to post with your account.

Guest
Reply to this topic...

×   Pasted as rich text.   Paste as plain text instead

  Only 75 emoji are allowed.

×   Your link has been automatically embedded.   Display as a link instead

×   Your previous content has been restored.   Clear editor

×   You cannot paste images directly. Upload or insert images from URL.

Sign in to follow this  

  • Recently Browsing   0 members

    No registered users viewing this page.