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[fqllve]

So, I really consider myself more of an author than a poet. But I do write a few poems on occasion and I'd like to share them with you guys. I promise I'll only post stuff I think could get published.

Spoiler: i am not going to save myself at the expense of the bag boy (click to show/hide)

two parallel lines breed three intersecting dimensions
extending out into the wellworn pools of every savory little thing that touched your mind's tongue
leaving twenty-one reasons to
stop
shouting while I'm trying to do my business
put your head in a little trinketbox and contemplate the vastness of the echoes only you create for yourself
and I will watch as the box vibrates itself off the table
the rings and things and dreams spilling out through the cracks your mind makes
golden hot horseshoes falling to the floor

is it that you don't see that anyone's around you
that you can't breathe or believe any words outside your own?
each person speaks in colors long before they speak in words but you can't see them with your soundwaves distorting space
but I don't imagine you'd verymuch want to anyway

everything exists by what-it's-nots
exists only at the exclusion of what it is
and there are many things I could say you're not
a bear, a bird, a firehydrant
a witch, a king, an amoeba that digests through the forth wall of the story we pretend to live

a thing with
multiple perspectives

Spoiler: chair ambulates—dog missing (click to show/hide)

how did i become this man? and who was i when i wasnt him? coursing through this wire—steel weaves atwisting—knotty bramble life. a man can spend a lifetime learning about himself. thats what ill do sit here, and when im forced to move ill move only in relation to how it makes me me. contrastive citrus—peels it on the floor i do. watch my belly rub against checkerboard tiles until i slither underneath the stove. and then youll ask me my name. another question to which i have no answer.

hear the whisper in my ear—that is me. i fill in the blanks of my past with myself. walking through a foggy eye, piecing back the details. and whisper more, myself, in my hand as it rubs against carpet. the more i know the better, even if all invented.

Spoiler: the antimony eyes of others (click to show/hide)

moon
why are you so hesistant to fall?
down here in space we wait
another day
and i would have to remind you
again the trees
fall underneath your roundness

and moon
why are you?
hung upon a washline round the neck
dispassionate silver dead
sabermen are saying over and over
he who paints our nighttime walls is vanished
dont you remember why i called you?

in absolute
aurellium by cesium―promenade
and clothe the vagrants in frost
hoping for another time
but ending somewhere beneath your eye luminous
to be forgotten while forever you remain

do we call for you?
who is it who is it that begs us?
in sleep
you
we

when you were young and molten, molting
your image was burned into our mountains
and now you are old old
and now you are

moon
will we ever caress your face?
i long to feel your hair
running between my fingers as sand
i long to feel your empty breath on my skin
we long to conquer you
as we have conquered ourselves

so moon
do not think ill of our moans and howls
cries at the void that separates
our feet from your ground
antimony eyes
or ice growing between shuttle bones
or so

if there
happens on the outside a fire
was that fire you,
or we―me?
or was it someone else
perhaps a cat, cruising down the street
or someones mother angry at the night

where is my hat?
youve seen everything so
have you
have?

when you were young and molten, molting
your image was burned into our mountains
when you were old
the shell of some longdead inner life
could you feel our taste in your mouth?

and the sky sends mantras to the dirt
blooming your flower now crystalized
and everything sleeping gathers at the windows
mouthing your praises
when the sorcerer sends for his robes
to cover in the deepest holes the longing
then there recalls the omen
mouthing your praises

Please, I'd like to hear your thoughts.

[fqllve]

I've been working on getting this up for about a week now and I finally got finished. It is a poem by robots for robots.

in a coat

[Supermikhail]

That was certainly something.


Yeah, can't say much more than that. Still don't understand. The voice is jarring, and without reading the description you pretty much can understand nothing. Who is it for, besides robots? Would Van Gogh dig it? Or Lynch?

Oh, oh, after finally getting through the text, how is it a poem about robots? Robots don't have sex. Preposterous!

[fqllve]

I think Lynch would dig it, at least I think it aligns with his sensibilities. Who is it for though, really? I dunno, crazy people, I guess.

Oh, do you mean that "lascivious howler monkeys sex around on" part? That part is about humans, of course. The poem's not really about robots though, it's about that Sunbeam bread commercial.