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Underground eXperts United File 596
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Underground eXperts United
Presents...
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[ Sore Loser's Anthology ] [ By Freon ]
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Sore Loser's Anthology
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- Introduction to SLA - (September, 2001)
I can't deny I'm quite well known 'round here for talking crap
Indeed, known as a poet, aye, and a depressive sap
who's willing to write anything and lie and call it food
for thought or entertainment, aye, although my shit's no good
I really ought to send some poems to the uXu
slap some in a g-file, aye, and then email them through
or claiming poet's status would be, arguably, a lie
and if I'm not a bard, I might as well curl up and die
since I have a nasty tendency to fuck up all the rest
of what I try to do in life, although I try my best
So anyway, here is some useless gibberish I wrote
If it's worse than I think it is, feel free to cut my throat.
- My Love - (August 2001)
(to the neighbours...and their cheesy love songs...)
My love is like an exit wound,
it glistens in the morning sun.
A bed of broken glass we'll share
each with one end of a gun.
My love's like a serrated edge
cruel barbs for tearing flesh
An idle hand with devil's work
your wasted final breath.
My love is like a severed head
A cold blade between your ribs
A gift of in then twist then out
Diamond abortion cribs.
My love is like a hangman's noose
An air-raid siren's drone.
Do what's best for you, my dear
And just leave me alone.
- Attention Span - (September 2001)
(to chaos and joy)
sometimes the urge denied was to
kneel by the sea and breathe her
cast myself from the devil's fist to fly
or just laugh to cut off vanity
laugh to snake round childish things
scrape dreams in a burned-on sticky mess
douse jealousy with honest shame
then blow away stability with plans
always drowning in love
and burning in hate
pay anything to switch like arthur
breathing criticism freely
standing firm on masculinity
or sending five points of fortune
though regret can't stop the dripping
catching piss-rain in cooking pots
but put away the spinning tops
i grow bored of them
- Pride - (April 2001)
(to P. A.)
In the meantime, like the pauses cutting
ropes of togetherness, cutting
the illusion of control, cutting
through walls of my comfort.
I am ashamed, yes I am ashamed
she begged both ways to shake me,
shake me ill with her little sicknesses and lies
begged then cut with words until
I complied; where are the morals now? The responsibility?
She pulled the string, aye -
but I closed the fist, we played her symphony
I hate her with all the fire now
of that fateless day - and finally
yes, I'd like to make her bleed - my rage misplaced
she'd be proud, and I am ashamed.
- Happy Hour - (August 2001)
(to the critics :-) )
A poem's short, like happy hour -
short and sweet or short and sour
not rambling, shambling, aimless, dour
like all my offerings are.
A poem should have a point to make -
Obscure references can't hide the fake
The gibbering fool, like horseshit cake
only seems good from afar.
A poem's jolly, like a joke -
A whisky to sip, a joint to toke,
But mine are all just pigs in pokes
Vinegar dressed as wine.
A poem's polite, a gentle art -
But mine are literary farts
Made from foul, ill-fitting parts
That never fucking rhyme.
- Chemical Inspiration - (September 2001)
(to THC, MDMA and LSD...)
No! It works in vague and subtle ways
trickles from the leaves on Summer days
out from the earth in Winter, hanging on
'till Spring, just moonshine where the snow has gone
drift easily into the same routine,
reminders of obsession where a station's been
and chalked a carefree line, burned through a friendly head
Possessed again, I've shaken sour dread
into the spoon, it floats and makes me think of witches
burning on a post and dying for the sins of leeches
Closed eyes, another kind of trip to places never seen.
There was, obscured by LSD and methamphetamine,
encrusted blood around the broken shards of shining glassy borders
a powder we addressed as "Sir" - we took its needs as orders
Watching distant on receding screens that started much to faint
seeing faces sweating blood and lymph; what experience could paint
so much madness in Those Eyes? But now relax, this is your time
Chivalry's for lonely knights...drop to keep the weather fine.
- Spring Breeze - (May 2001)
(to Scooby)
Sometimes when I see her -
always, when I see her,
I think - she's my Spring Breeze.
Just what you need, just exactly what you need
Just shows up when you didn't even realise
that it was what you wanted.
Sometimes, when she looks at me -
always, when she looks at me,
I think - she's my ray of light.
Falls on the lids of tired, pinched-shut eyes
and registers as a faint red glow
Makes you open them again.
Sometimes, when she talks to me -
always, when she talks to me,
I think - she's my mountain stream
Crystal clear, a soft glassy sound
that makes you relax and forget
you have hundreds of feet to climb.
Sometimes, when she walks away -
always, when she walks away,
I think - it's a shame you can't keep
the breeze or the ray of light
Only wish for them, idly dream
but gently smile.
- After Prayer - (September 2001)
(dedicated to god)
A silence, lunar, falls through Apollo's gaze
as passion takes the gift I brought
something truly beautiful
I kneel, wet grass, West End jungle beyond
the foolish things I sacrifice
to chaos, the only god
Protection; I begged for a sanctuary for her
for me, only the strength to wait
for this blessed creature
Through selfish salt, vain eyes pinch
and tear away God's metaphor;
this air is full of wishes
- I am alive - (September, 2001)
(to neurotransmitters...and kidding myself)
Lower, feel the heat! Amazing, lower still
closer, closer, how that word cuts me now!
Like cutting off my feet on Dream Hill
a penknife and desperation, how
it proves it, yes it proves I have survived
a million slings and arrows, still I am alive
Hiding from closeness, intimacy becomes
empty, empty, a dopamine come-down
Like a litre of smoke out my lungs
I guess what comes around, goes around
still breathing, yes the moment has arrived
to drop another pretense...guess I am alive
- Another - (Sometime, 199?)
(a poem I wrote when I was younger...I read it the other day
and thought it was actually better than a lot of stuff I write
these days. Didn't even know I still had it lying around, so
I've decided to include it)
The seed fell here, and grew into a life
beside a stream that flows to town
and into the joining of two rivers;
rivers that are lost in the Tweed just a few miles away.
The stream is easy to follow but it's lost -
and I was following it, and found the seed
the seed that grew not into a great oak
but into a willow
stone's throw from the wood
the others mock in shadows
sharing their joke
but the joke's owned by the willow
they cast their children into the stream
it carries them away to sea to die
The willow knows the truth behind the lie
but by the willow
a seed of a cheap pine quickly grows
takes no time to climb into the sky
its heavy brutal arms
hide light from the willow, tangle round its roots
force its trunk to lean out
the leaves touching the water of the stream
the laughing pine consumes the willow
and the willow weeps and dies.
they all beg to help
none can.
- Rage In Me - (August, 2001)
(written after the night out that went horribly wrong...
mainly to myself but partly to someone else who deserves
it much less, as it turns out.)
Sir -
I have a rage in me
the like of which you've never seen
of which you'll never see again
Though it may be, you've been my friend
it's fear and pain that make us strong
not fixed ideas of right and wrong
I'll break my fist to break your jaw
Unto itself, my Rage is Law
- freon (mailto:freon@kmfms.com ... http://www.nkpwhq.com/~freon/)
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uXu #596 Underground eXperts United 2002 uXu #596
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