Treasure Island

Freeform Workshop


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  • Augustus Egg (6/10/2009 8:48:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    freestyle poem project 4th draft
    part 1
    wool over

    i don’t want to sit spellbound
    sucked in, hunched up, enthralled
    for days on end
    only to find
    when asked

    Have the radiators been bled?
    It’s tempting to assume no
    It’s so deadly cold

    even the goldfish is staying put in his little house

    the thing about wool, especially
    socks
    in which holes have been drilled,
    is
    in my head its connection to stout wooden pegs:

    they’re expressions of a lover’s unexpected attachments
    apparently

    part 2
    the lover

    straight from the lolloping buttocks, the
    frequent bloody stools by any yardstick,
    is stock.
    For
    Like being pecked in the face
    by
    a lover
    and not
    as previously identified a bulldog?

    scarcely
    a small delicate,
    with about half of its bulk protruding from its mouth

    teeth
    Like dry stone walling

    Wind breaks

    her methodic longing for music
    that doubtless is
    with her strong comforting hands for pushing back

    and yet
    she appears almost to resent your gestures
    of affection
    there
    crouching on the floor

    and there, other plastic creatures,
    twin girls?
    like moons smelting of iron


    i advise a monocle, to distinguish one from another
    or a forename:
    one that depends for its success on the virtue of its speaking the truth

    lunick: the cosmonaut’s word for muzzle.

    (sweet ravens,
    he kisses them full on
    beaks
    curved cruel)

    part 3

    the glue factories
    on both sides
    are covered with glue
    all the doors are stuck
    and everyone is either stuck in
    or stuck out

    part 4
    (the night shift)

    good.

    it’s dark
    now we can make our assessments
    when no etiquette is more rigid or bad deportment
    less frowned upon.

    driven by twitchy fingers, colours
    cover the canvases
    still tacky
    years later

  • Augustus Egg (6/9/2009 10:01:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    freestyle poem (third draft)
    part 1
    wool lover

    the thing about wool, especially
    socks
    in which holes have been drilled,
    is in my head
    its connection to stout wooden pegs:

    expressions of a lover’s unexpected attachments

    part 2
    the lover

    straight from the lolloping buttocks, the
    frequent bloody stools by any yardstick,
    is stock.
    and
    what passes for a lover
    and not as previously stated a bulldog?

    scarcely a small delicate,
    with about half of its bulk protruding from its mouth
    some teeth!
    Like dry stone walling

    Wind breaks

    her methodic longing for music
    that doubtless is the wife
    with her strong comforting hands for pushing back

    and yet
    she appears almost to resent your gestures

    there
    crouching on the floor

    alongside
    those other plastic creatures
    twin girls like moons smelting of iron

    may i suggest a monocle, to distinguish one from another
    or a forename:

    one that depends for its success on the virtue of its speaking the truth

    lunick: the cosmonaut’s word for muzzle.

    (sweet ravens,
    he kisses them full on their cruel curved beaks)

    part 3
    the factorys (stillsketchynotuptomuchyet)

    are covered with glue

    part 4
    (the night shift)

    good.
    it’s dark
    we can make our assessments
    while
    no etiquette is more rigid or bad deportment
    less frowned upon.

    and colours
    driven by twitching fingers
    cover the canvases
    still tacky
    years later

  • Augustus Egg (6/9/2009 3:32:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    Lyrics/ Scott Walker sings zero 7
    3rd draft

    that game
    lost in thought
    i had so long to act
    i learned to draw
    nothing
    for weeks, looking down
    rove, rainy afternoons
    nothing
    lost in thought
    looking down on nothing
    for so long
    with nothing to draw on
    except these large flat stones
    placed on edge
    on the groovy stone
    the cemetery of their faces
    usually means
    they’ve gone and died
    spoken of
    in retrospect
    implacable hates
    speeded by

    the archbishop
    he knows his stuff
    jokes
    about swarms of locusts
    and other nimble vermin

    repeat chorus.

  • Augustus Egg (6/7/2009 9:34:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    freestyle poem project (second draft)

    part 2 (no part 1 as yet)

    the family

    straight from the lolloping buttocks the
    frequent bloody stools
    by any yardstick,
    is stock.

    it is your mother and not a bulldog?
    scarcely a small delicate
    with about half of its bulk protruding from its mouth
    what teeth!
    she’ll make an excellent overbite

    and this
    i take it
    by her longing for music
    is your lovely wife?
    with her strong comforting hands
    for pushing back
    and yet

    she appears to be soft and resistless
    to your gestures of affection
    there crouching on the floor

    i ascertain these other plastic features about your knees
    are your twin girls
    like moons
    smelling of vegetables

    may i suggest a monocle to distinguish one from the other

    or a tantalising forename:

    one that depends for its success on
    the virtue of its speaking the truth

    lunick: the cosmonaut’s word for muzzle.

    sweet ravens
    he’s kissing them now
    frantically
    on their cruel curved beaks

    part 3
    the factory (stillsketchynotuptomuchyet)

    what is less clear to me
    in this maze of industrial circles
    is why
    nightly
    silly steaming buttocks
    are covered with glue

    still tacky
    years later


    part 4
    (the night shift)

    good.
    it’s dark
    we can make our assessments
    when
    no etiquette is more rigid or bad deportment
    less frowned upon.

    the procedure is as follows:

    prime a surface and twist in
    the direction of a slant
    then
    have lots of colours cover the ground until
    the dream is over

    late, late at night
    their
    own simplicity and truth
    will emerge..

    (this is a far as i’ve come. i envisage more parts before i begin tampering)

  • Lorraine Margueritte Gasrel Black (6/4/2009 7:58:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    I just wrote a freeform poem titled AFRICA'S SOUL It's for a good cause: poetryforchange@yahoo.com.See Megan's notice on the first forum for specifics.

  • Bullion Grey (6/3/2009 11:58:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    May you find out one day what is Love.
    May Love find you one day, too.
    Love holds the Truth that all is precious.
    Love judges no-thing as it is always growing.
    Love realizes all is well.
    Love understands everything leads to It.
    Love asks every person to enter the Mystery.
    Few are able, for whatever reasons, enter Love.
    Love sets one free.
    Love uses everything.
    Only in Love can you know Love.
    For those still resisting, Love is waiting.
    BG

  • Augustus Egg (6/3/2009 9:03:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    Poets & poetry

    it will lie next to judgment
    barred
    like death and incapacity, bankrupt
    or
    oh wonderful irony
    liquidation of all that damp-
    ping down.

    picture it,
    like an old carpet complexion, an omelette
    blanket of raspberry eggs.
    you are steering the words, yet
    keeping meticulously to hidden rules

    an arrangement of random bolts or pins
    named, profiled, textured
    threaded over and over

    effectively a programme of accurate reflection
    and little tails sticking up
    like tongues fitted against a great volume of air

    there we’ll find their heads
    uppermost


    a poem

    i noticed today
    displayed as poetry
    some improbable words

    irregular sentences
    becoming almost daft

    like tarry flavoured pimples cured
    preserved by the smoke

    there, a blind boy is rounded up
    no pitiless talk relief to think of him
    in that nearest house
    sight staring into space

    they alone work, don’t starve
    like Africans do that
    with bad quality flour, kind
    as well as included in the family of that

    good natured thing
    holding a rank equal to that of a king.

  • Bullion Grey (5/31/2009 11:14:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    Don't try to tell me lies about what is important in life. Avoid teaching things like honor (only applies if enforced like military an such) . Or being honest (best research about it is the average person decieves at least once every two hours, plus take make-up for example, it is definitely deception, and look at nature, countless creatures conceal themselves for food or to avoid becoming food) . Don't fake me out with your stories of how great the old days were (in the old days there were plenty who spoke of the old days THEN) . Stop all this whining about political figures seeming incorruptable only to find later they are in court facing corruption charges, (studies show that there are 1500 Lobbyist for each D.C. politician) . Cease talking about how bad speeding 5 or 10 miles over the speed limit is, (on any given day one can watch speeding patrol cars without lights or sirens) . Don't tell me how great your belief is or how you 'know' what you believe is true, (the record of such belief myopia leading to a dead end or worse are legendary) . And get off that high horse of how to properly spell or gramerically say something, (some of the most powerful, influencial writing is decidely not all correct spelling and grammer)
    Oh, and for those who think they are being an 'individual' by wearing clothes or hair in a certain way, forget about it...your friends dress the same way. So much for being independent. Harley Davidson riders like to say they are 'individualist' - what a laugh! Harely Davison riders are all part of a tribe of common niche people, and to top it off, they are unwitting victims of great marketing! Yes, there are honest people, but you won't find them spouting how honest they are. There are people with honor but they don't need to be trained to kill or wear a suit or uniform. So on and so forth...
    BG

  • Augustus Egg (5/30/2009 8:57:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    ‘When the individual line ceases to have energy for me I usually break the line there' Ed Dorn

  • Augustus Egg (5/28/2009 8:31:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    if a poem isn’t an excursion, then what is it?
    an outing
    an errand
    a stroll down memory lane?


    unconquerable fear (an excursion into the mountains)

    ice tilted sunwards
    falling
    weight well forward
    steeply
    inclined
    grips
    small hand holds
    a sense of exposure
    makes that foot placement look dicey

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