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Fucked Up College Kids Poetry 013
F U C K E D U P C O L L E G E K I D S
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- t h e p o e t r y v e n t u r e -
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Good poetry, as opposed to bad or mediocre poetry, speaks
with a quality of universality. A poem tells a story or
describes a scene that anyone can translate into a meaning
of their own. There is no right or wrong way to read or
write a poem, but what you get out of it as a writer or a
reader depends on what you put into it. Poetry gets a bad
rap because many "real writers" imagine that short works
simply don't take as much effort to write as a novel or
magazine article does. I disagree. A poet can put into 20
lines what a writer might need 100 lines of prose to convey.
So write and read, and have fun with it.
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May I Have This Dance?
Two souls collide.
Surprised,
They stand startled.
Mirror images,
Each reaches out.
Hesitation reigns.
Slowly they begin their dance
of exploration.
Formal at first,
Yet even from the beginning
In perfect time.
They step closer,
Ever closer.
Perfect partners
In this dance
Of life and being.
Dancing on through the night,
Melding,
Each hoping
The music never stops.
-krystalia 02/98
GOODNIGHT AMERICAN YOUTH
Goodnight American youth:
maybe you will dream fresh methods
to keep non-consensus adversity bleeding
instead of feeding your mind with lies;
your truth does not rest in these -
music, image, grades or popularity.
Goodnight American youth:
maybe you will dream about someone
who is special in your life ... make love
merely with your clothes on while
staying clean from alcohol and drugs -
responsibility isn't a disease; it's the cure.
Goodnight American youth:
maybe you will dream about yourself
and where your position in the human race
might be ... knowing you start in the middle,
trapped between security and insecurity -
you want to be alone; you need to be loved.
Indiana Poet Jan. 5, 1998
Poetry in Action
Life is poetry in action.
The poet conceives his artistry
In the fancy of a mind feverish and frenzied,
And finds, upon putting ink to fibers,
That conceit is altered by the form:
Language, meter, rhyme,
And thought pattern.
Words enscribed take on an aspect
Entirely alien to the proposed plan.
Hopes, goals, and desire are tossed overboard,
As the poet, anchored in despair,
'Tempts to save or salvage
His flound'ring poesy,
Or at least move it safely
To the next port.
He tacks and jibes,
Heels and runs,
Trying to set the conceived course aright.
Life and poetry take on lives of their own.
The poet stands aghast at the monstrosity he has created,
Now unable to restrain or even check
This beastly constrivance.
Then he goes down on some unknown shoal,
Unable even to recognize this foreign creation
That has been this life, this poem.
Screamin' Lord Byron
the need to feel
Curious insomnia keeping me from rest
lyrical poems pour forth from another room
verbal bondage. strong baseline. precarious angel.
descend you godless bitch. take me now.
wrap me in your wings and lift me from
this mortality. Take me to your master.
When it is over I will remove the hndcuffs
and blindfold, before cleaning the fresh
whip marks.
Your job is done angel.
Truth or dare. Shut up and lie.
12-18-97
Race with No Face
I've lost my ability to see my hand in front of my face,
since I realized that that was then and this is now,
what was, was and is no longer.
I can't seem to even be able to see my hand in front of my face.
This crazy world, everyone has their pace,
and it seems that they are all in some sort of race,
where I sit back and I laugh now,
because I have no place to go and run to be the first.
Maybe this is what writer's block is all about,
or maybe this is what happens when I let
my heart tell me what I'm all about.
I've lost my ability to see my hand infront of my face.
Walking down the seamless, dark hallway,
I wonder if I could just fall and never land.
Fall away from this place, and have the bottom of my heart, fall out.
That would be so nice, because they needn't worry about not seeing my
hand infront of my face.
I close my eyes, only to see traces of yesterdays,
turning over only to feel the pain of what once was,
I look up to the sky, and cry out loud
"I've lost my ability to see my hand infront of my face!"
Someone is trying to sweep me off my feet,
or is that I just see what I want to see?
I still can't see my hand infront of my face.
Wondering what will become of this life long race.
I've lost my ability to see my hand infront of my face.
-Kamira February 6, 1998
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E D I T O R S: jericho@dim.com & demonika@dim.com
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you do not have FTP access and would like back issues,
send a list of missing issues and they will be sent.
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A V A I L A B I L I T Y:
AnonFTP: FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK/POETRY
WWW: http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho
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(c) Copyright. All poems copyright by original author.
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F O U N D E D: October 30, 1997
