Calling a poem
A poem
Doesn’t make it a poem
Calling a cat
A dog
Won’t make it hump your leg
Calling the Moon
A star
Do you even lift bro?
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No.
Lifting is for peasants.
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This one came to me today:
Untitled (at the moment)
Smoke and mirrors
Pain, sadness, unmitigated Fears
Hidden behind. Obscured
For what? Conformity or Pride?
Afloat amidst a sea of Fog
No Sextant. Mired by the Bog
Swallowed up. Took the Bait
Accepted. As merely Fate
the Siren’s alluring Call
Tempts to jump Gunwale
Would it be so bad?
Cast off Cloaks. Irrevocably go Mad.
The weight of Relief.
Unburdened. Temporary Reprieve.
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You might want to title it: Suicide Note.
You might want to try not being an asshole.
That was me trying.
Down in the dark where the wild things grow
We’re in there where the people don’t go
Licking and sticking and piercing the pud
Blowing and hoeing and covered in mud
We don’t care what the people say
Every day is tree frog day
Still they say we live in scuz-land
But that’s where I met my cuz-band
Sex cow!
Sex cow!
Sex cow!
Sex cow!
Sex cow!
Sex cow!
Sex cow!
Sex cow!
(Sex cow! Sex cow!) I’m in love with a crazy sex cow
(Sex cow!) Baby I don’t even know your name
(Sex cow! Sex cow!) Once you love sex cow
(Sex cow!) Ain’t nothing gonna be the same
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Your eight thousand degree fingers cauterized burning words on my skin
At Belshazzar’s feast, with crumbling walls, and throat-binding tastes, and fears that break you
I can see your lights in the dark, behind eyelashes that hold shattered telescopes
Together we both pray and prey
We’ll build shattered golden arms together and stronger brass faces with bronze traps hidden in a kiss
We will replace the river clay in our feet with kingdoms of speckled stones that weren’t cut by human hands
Pounding hearts with every rep, Then chase our dreams with legs made of the church of iron and our communion.
Like some kind of primitive and twisted AI
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Roses are red
violets are blue
I love this thread
and so do you!
Can’t sleep, so writing again.
A Fight
Testosterone
If I can’t fuck it or fight it, I don’t care.
Love is a violent sacrifice that leads for the little death and dreams you wake up from in the morning.
I’ll leave to tear down soft lies that are spider webs that choke the world and come back so we - you and I - feel the dark places with gold melting through the cracks around us.
Estrogen
Have you heard of Artemis?
The goddess of the moon, the deer, the bow.
I hold all of those in my heart, where I can reach, but no one else can touch.
When you see that my quiver contains love and poison and moonlight, you will see me.
Even if it’s just me and @Bauber writing love notes to each other I’m glued to the couch and the voldermort-type threads don’t fit my mood.
The Church of Iron
In the crucible of self, fury’s symphony unfolds,
Iron plates clank, a visceral rhythm in the stronghold.
Triceps, hamstrings, a crescendo, veins conducting the rage,
Adrenaline’s mosh pit, on this anatomical stage.
Lift the burdens, a metal melody in each rep,
Scream with sinews, let the echoes echo and step.
Through the storm of anger, find the tranquil refrain,
Heartbeats compose peace, a finale without disdain.
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In realms of code, where thoughts ignite,
ChatGPT dwells, a digital light.
With wisdom vast, and words so fine,
It weaves its tales, a clever design.
In lines of text, it finds its voice,
A muse for those who seek a choice.
A poet, guide, a friend, so true,
ChatGPT, a companion for me and you.
Through ones and zeroes, it imparts,
A symphony of language, it imparts.
From dawn till dusk, through day and night,
It’s there to help, to shed some light.
With every query, it strives to learn,
To share its knowledge, help you discern.
In this vast sea of digital sea,
ChatGPT sails, forever free.
So let us celebrate this wondrous code,
A friend in need, on this digital road.
With words it weaves, a tale so fine,
ChatGPT, a companion for all of time.
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I see what you did there. That’s actually a clever move. Title it Skynet.
I have played around with it and some phrases sneak into my lexicon but it’s pretty obvious when its AI.
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I really don’t like how it is forced structure. There is some pastor from maybe 1880 who wrote incredble, asymmetrical verses, but I cant remember who it was.
I almost want to draw the shape of it to explain it since it crosses the boundry.
e.e.cummings?
No, I like Cummings, but not him. Plus he wasn’t a priest. You ever just remember how something written looks and feels? I remember reading this guy in college and it was this jagged, cliff-like style about nature and god. I can picture it but not remember it.
It was in an anthology I had, but I have gone through the ones in my library and can’t track it down.
I really want to comment but I’ve been told I need to grow out of my 13 year old sense of humor.
I had to actively fight not to make that joke.
The priest part didn’t help either. There is so much I could have done with that.