Lately I haven’t been too active with this poetry blog, because of multiple reasons. I’ve been concentrating on other things, because I have no will to write at all. I know the words are there, but I don’t feel like it’s in any way appropriate to express personal feelings to others. I feel like a complete tramp and a whore because I’ve been writing poetry.
I don’t know what happened, but I…
Ruumiit tippuu katolt’ alas,
ihan kuin miekkavalaat
Lapset katsoo telkkarii,
löytää netist ystävii
ja syövät sateenkaaria
Olen syvään uneksinut
En tiedä viisastunko vai en,
ken tietää tuollaisen.
rahaa tulee aiva sama
huorataan kaikki nyt.
Sama tuoksu uusi hinta
lattiassa sama pinta
ihminen on verilettu.
Olen syvään uneksinut
August hides in a tinderbox somewhere,
because the girls of spring can’t be found,
so kindle your cinders
and kiss me goodnight, Lucinda!
July is a haven of unmistakable splendor,
I know all the pope’s ministers would agree,
so with your smile big and bright,
o kiss me goodnight, Lucinda!
June sways so gently in the arms of summer,
it’s golden like a fable when drunk on black label
and we danced…
Imagine being stuck in a cold and terrible place, but later realizing that the real estate agent really gave you a good deal for it.
Tension at Belbek, the crisis of Crimea
There is talk of freedoms and sanctions
It’s all out there like a great big tidal wave
that is held together by a thin layer of glass
Reddit LIVE feed, Reuters –Bang bang
I turn my head to Google,
Death by Canadian Rye and images of Sandra Bullock,
Russian President Vladimir Putin is making a statement
Twelve hundred hours and thirty-five minute dregs
I believe poetry is dead.
I wish that someone would prove me wrong.
This is how I feel:
I am tired of pretension and ego.
I’ve seen too many people trying to be something GREAT instead of something…….meaningful.
That is all.
A dream of death cannot be seen before you die!
Listen to the truth in these roots of gospel sound,
The clogged minds rust under simian cries
Venereal disease flogging this Jesus carcass
Oh Christ is weeping through our olden times
The virtue of horror, terror, terror, horror
Sleepless and burned lay barren each idealistic lie.
Cremation phoenix, cremation phoenix
The smoke and ash all satisfy
This is the seventh serenade
that got stranded on this earth:
I’ll put a ring on that finger
like knife to your side
as my love will streamline
past your ubiquitous eyes.
A serenade for the weak,
for the meek who are fighting,
this is the seventh serenade
that got sold without worth.
The seventh serenade
to have died in the dirt.
I’m sick of this polka parisienne
that all trapped songbirds sing,
but why complain when the sounds
that I crave aren’t even audible,
how could I listen to words through metal bars
if I cannot stop and think in my time of living.
I watch film snippets…