And poems goes here

The Core Media Forum
41

[Untitled]
[tentative title: “For Rufus, Neko, and Norah”]
3/16/04

Playing your souless approximation
Of some allegedly “jazz” tune
Earn the praise and the applause
Of every faker in the room
Emperor’s new clothing weaved
In Audio Format
Only idiots hear nudity, only fools
Can see you’re full of crap

Folk without a heart
Jazz without a soul
Funk without a pulse
Rock without a Roll

An easy listening hit featured
On compilations everywhere
In-store muzak is what you make
Pollute the artificial air
Focus of a group that fingersnap
hipster style in a suit
Designed by a faux Italian
Perfect fit for you

Folk without a heart
Jazz without a soul
Funk without a pulse
Rock without a Roll

Voted Most Likely To Succeed
And Least Likely To Offend
In school and in a boardroom
Just continue to pretend

I’m sure you have a great ol’ story
Of how you struck it big
Seen in the right street-cred club
Playing your usual gig
But you weren’t discovered so much
As you were created
Groupthink product and comprimise
Made you when they mated

Folk without a heart
Jazz without a soul
Funk without a pulse
Rock without a Roll

“Oh she’s so great”
But nobody knows why
Ask that question anywhere
And blank stares will reply

Like Britney Spears with Snob Appeal
For the foamy latte crowd
Anointed with grammies (like they mean a thing)
– You’re hipper than thou
Pushed down our throats for 18 months
Until we choke on elbows
Or the committee crowns a new soul Queen
and out the door you go

Folk without a heart
Jazz without a soul
Funk without a pulse
Rock without a Roll

Voted Most Likely To Succeed
And Least Likely To Offend
In school and in a boardroom
Just continue to pretend.

42

That’s pretty sweet, Kaiser - when I read it, it reminds me for some reason of old 50’s and 60’s folk groups. Something about the rhythm of it, and the lyrics (the words), so cutting! Voted Most Likely To Succeed, Least Likely To Offend, In a school and in a boardroom, just continue to pretend. The rhyme/rhythm scheme reminds me of Dr. Seuss sort of (I don’t know why), it has that storytelling feel to it, which is totally a compliment - a modern-day Seussian, 60’s-folk poem, rock on. Though, some lines feel awkward as I read over them - they have too many or too few syllables, like, uh,

“Designed by a faux Italian
Perfect fit for you”

sounds like it needs one more syllable, or something, and

“But you weren’t discovered so much
As you were created”

to read it with the right rhythm, it makes me say “discovERED” and “creaTED,” which is a picky-ass sort of thing to say, but it kind of detracted from the biting feel of that stanza. I’m willing to accept that I’m full of shit, because as I look at that again, it doesn’t seem so bad, but I don’t know. I’m hardly a good poet. Same goes for “elBOWS” in the next stanza.

But other than picky shit like that, this poem was pretty freakin’ awesome. With some creativity and modification, it could totally be a good sort of, cheerfully sung but scathing, biting song accompanied by like, a guitar or something, like some sort of modern-day folk song. I dunno, that’s what struck me about it.

Keep writing!

-Mazrim Taim

43

damn nice poems and the problem with too much or too less syllables isn’t that hard to solve… just make some words longer/shorter or add one

44

Untitled

We are the bookworms.
You mock us.
We sit in the corners,
You ignore us.
We seem anti-social
Are we ever alone?
We are the wallflowers,
But you see us there.
We befriend few,
But we protect those we do.
We are the scholars,
We watch and we learn.
You call us stupid
But you ask us to help.
We are the warriors,
But we rarely show it.
We fight a thousand battles everyday,
But you never notice,
Nobody ever notices.
We are the warriors,
And we are the scholars,
But what are we,
And what are you?

45

I like that. :slight_smile: pretty!

46

My, how morbid… I’m not a poetry person, but we need some color in here!

<u>How to make a cartoon</u>

First a villain, make him mean,
his evil laughter hoarse and keen
Drape in silk of red and gold
then an EVIL plot is to be told

The sidekick is an ugly one,
his strength is great but wit all gone
His master’s will is all the counts
Too bad he’ll always fail the stunts

Now the hero, what a stud!
His wits and strength… but mind is mud.
Despite the glory, awe and cheers,
depression sends him down in tears

And of course, we need a girl!
A total babe with hair that swirls
The sexappeal goes through the roof
Thin waist and boobs make villains goof

Serve with a cute pet on top

The rhythm is all messed up I fear, but I’m no good at that stuff. Ah well…

47

Martyr’s Fate

The flames of eternity
Flare ever higher,
As the riots ensue,
And they’ve slain another martyr.

Her status was plain,
And her past insignificant,
But the words that she spoke
Many thought were belligerent.

Her blood, it was shed,
And her tongue burned away.
For everyone’s will, her fate,
She met this day.

Some spirits, she moved,
And others, she merely angered,
And some had thought the spirit of a demon
Began to taint her.

Burned at the stake,
Or hung in a cage,
Another martyr’s fate had been met
This day in age.

48

Grim. Though I suppose that such history always is. And I suppose it’s not wholly history, either; such things are still done today. Nicely written, from what I know of poetry at least (which is next to nothing; I can never get away from rhyme schemes when I try to write any.)

49

I disagree Maz. I find rhyming schemes to be incredibly important when it comes to immersing the reader into the mind of the poet. Without rhyming schemes, I get bored when I read a poem.

I just wanted to share a poem I found, by Dylan Thomas titled “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night”

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light

50

black bile spitthroat little truths explode into reality
chromatic diamond tipped fissions appear
unruffled
unchanging
I’m shaking in a little box

thousands sing about the prisoncells and few of the prisoner

51

Here’s something I wrote a little more than two years ago. I wrote it in frustration when I couldn’t think of a name.

Names

Names, how they are hard to find,
How Authors get them, boggles my mind.

52

I hate thinking up names… there usually combinations/variations of my friends names…

53

I used to have that problem, too. But then I got better at it. I stopped worrying if they sound cool or not. For a story of mine I’m making up a language, and to make up the words I just speak whatever out loud, and write down what I can remember, or what strikes me as sounding good. Then I add meanings to them, and then I can put them together to form names. Occassionally I “reverse engineer” real names, but most often not. Let’s see… for example ‘Mered’ is ‘Glory’ and ‘Ter’ is ‘King’…therefore ‘Meredter’ is ‘King of Glory’. Mostly that sort of thing. Occasionally I just come up with a name and make meanings out of them because I like them, though.
For example, in keeping with the spirit of the thread, here is a fragment of a poem I’m trying to write that makes use of some of those made up names (and if you don’t understand what it’s supposed to be of, it’s because it’s a fragment that starts in the middle of things. Basically this king of the North, Adameter, has just come to the palisade wall of the enemy encampment; the first lines are those the sentry calls down):

“Who are you now, thou brigand fey,
that comes so boldly, halt and say!
And then aside, with paling face,
to comrades standing there in place:
“He seems the lord of some great land.
And by his side, there hangs a brand,
most marvellously fair to see.
‘Tis some enchanted blade, I deem,
perhaps the work of Meleth’s love
and though we stand here high above
upon fast walls of timber wrought,
(and though I may be coward thought)
I fear his fell and wrathful face.
I pray he soon departs this place.”
As this he in chill dread confides,
Adameter there pacing strides,
Lo! Upward casts he his dark eyes,
with voice to quell a demon cries:
“Make haste, thou sentry still with fear
and tell thy master I am here.”

Well, only two names I made up in there: Adameter and Meleth. Meleth means “one of skill”. Adameter…don’t rightly know yet, but it’s my favorite of all the names I’ve yet made up. And it’s pronounced Ah-dahm-eht-er, with the emphasis on the second syllable. With rolled r’s.

54

I will find my poems and type them down since I always won some kind of awards for them.

55

gea Sorc is right, rhyme schemes are actually pretty cool (been writing a bunch of poetry myself of late, and having fun with various structures), but they’re not essential.

Walt Whitman’s poems don’t rhyme, but he’s the fucking best poet ever in the world. That’s mainly what I’m posting to say - Walt Whitman is the best poet ever in the world. Oh my god, like, I open up to one of his poems and IMMEDIATELY,

"I wander all night in my vision,
Stepping with light feet…swiftly and noiselessly stepping and stopping,
Bending with open eyes over the shut eyes of sleepers;
Wandering and confused…lost to myself…ill-assorted…contradictory,
Pausing and gazing and bending and stopping.

How solemn they look there, stretched and still;
How quiet they breathe, the little children in their cradles.

The wretched faces of ennuyes, the white features of corpses, the livid faces of drunkards, the sick-gray faces of onanists,
The gashed bodies on battlefields, the insane in their strong-doored rooms, the sacred idiots,
The newborn emerging from gates and the dying emerging from gates,
The night pervades and enfolds them"

And this doesn’t stop! It’s like, five pages of just, pure, hardcore, INTENSE poetry. Walt Whitman is like, the best fucking poet ever. Man, there goes sleeping for tonight.

–Mazrim Taim

56

I haven’t posted anything here in a long time, but I wrote this tonight, and was wondering what other people would think:

Eye to Heart
And when will we meet, seeing eye to eye?
You tilt my head up from the rosy shade,
To watch your gaze turn to the clouds - afraid
Of what? Shall I again let it pass by?
Tell me why you look away; I will try,
With you, with leveled eye, to find what made
You start to fear. Then, exposed, it will fade.
Just look at me! Tell me it was no lie!
I still recall when we saw heart to heart,
If not eye to eye. Can eyes see at night?
Tell me, what fear is there to keep apart
Two hearts that meet at dusk? There’s no such fright.
So stay with me, through the evening, and part
Only when sleepy eyes reclaim our sight.

Xwing1056

57

Let’s see what happens when you listen to extreme metal, death metal and black metal and then TRY to write a poem. :-p

burn alive from flame licked tongue
desecrated mounds of corrupted faith
generic words all rape our bones
while Heaven marked martyrs go to waste

a solitary man in blood stained robes collapses on the floor
the maggots crawl in filthy martyrs
filthy filthy souls
scald my eyes and ears with your brand and love me 'till I’m dead
pieces of me fall on the floor
maggots writhe through every orifice

cry in zealous vain you fucking cunt
I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you
I don’t hate anybody you fucking asshole
shut up you fucking cunt
I am truth
I know the truth
I call you from the cemetary
still alive
come join me in this sweet undeath pop my eyeballs into your mouth like chocolate candy
I don’t think anybody is a whore
I am the faithful horror

melted wax drips down my reformed chest
mouth sewn shut and limbs tied to the rack
I am to keep silent I am to keep silent I am to keep silent
I scream
I taste the blood dripping down my chin
real human emotion doesn’t happen doesn’t happen
just self-pity you fucking cunt
Ken, you fucking cunt… I hate you…
you’re a liar
self preserve self destruct

burn down this fucking town down burn this fucking town down burn this fucking town down
burn down the state
burn down the fucking country a wall of flame across the border that will make Buchanan happy
cleanse the Earth of the Unholy souls
everyone will be happy with us gone
the Pigs
the Rulers of the World
the little boy with all the toys who won’t fucking share
kill them all
kill us all

SKULLFUCK US- YOU’VE DONE EVERYTHING ELSE!

the evil among us lives nextdoor
I ask not “why?”
I ask “why me?”
learned experience always hurts tired souls
the next morning
throat disguised
collar unbuttoned
I stumble into the crowd without any inhibitions
without a prayer or guide I scream for them to follow
and they fly to the banner of Ken
The Lost?
The Dead?
The Arrogant?
the man.

we fight for eons on the dusty plain against the Other
but the Other is too crafty
it will always exist
even if we kill it, it reappears as Another Other

Apocalyptic revelation number six billion twenty six:
when all sorrow is gone from the world one can guarantee there will be no one left standing.

easy solutions begit worse problems, but complex solutions tighten the knot

a wretched morass of self-important spew thrown upon a computer screen for a few selected to see

I love my soul and hate my mind
where does one start and the other begin?

58

See, while I agree Walt Whitman is indeed quite intense, I just get bored reading it because there’s no continuity. I might as well be reading “Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man”.

59

What’s it like to be two people? Tell me.
Only one ever shows himself to us;
The happy one, so friendly and free
From anger. He’s the one whom we can trust
To lift us to joy when we are in need
Of a good laugh. Not a care in the world
Does he have, a flawless fellow indeed,
Like a true knight with his banner unfurled.
When I’m alone, the other comes. Dark thoughts
it whispers to me. Blood. Pain. Death. This voice
I both hate and love. Seduction: desires
forbidden have my mind in its snare caught.
The burden of fighting to keep my choice
Weighs heavy. It is so nice, the fire.

60

Finally got off my lazy ass, and wrote something new. Well here it is:

Love’s Folly

I don’t know why
I listened,
But I did.
That was my mistake.

And it cost me
The one thing
In life,
That could bring me
True joy,
You.

They didn’t care,
Not for me
Or for you,
And not for us.

Why would they,
All they want,
Is to spread
Their pain.
To anyone,
Everyone,
They can.

And I listened to them.
They made me doubt you,
Doubt us, What could have been.
But they, are no excuse.

Forgive my folly,
I never meant, to
Cause all your pain.
All I wanted
Was to know true love,
And know I see it,
As bright as the sun.

Inside you.