F U C K E D U P C O L L E G E K I D S ------------------------------------------------------- - t h e p o e t r y v e n t u r e - ------------------------------------------------------- some of the best poetry is about those deep & penetrating emotions, just primal enough to allow poets & philosphers to wax intellectual about them. love, rage, hate, fear, sadness... all of these things are what make us human, all of these things are what make us poets. sometimes there is nothing better than a few moments alone with a line or two, written just for you, 200 years ago. ------------------------------------------------------- The Writers Poem Clean white paper, staring into the void Neatly ruled lines, judging every written word Deadline rushing nearer, threatening to overtake Pen touching down on paper, bleeding my soul as the ink All to you the reader, keeper of the dream voyager antithesis between us a taut unsharing exists smoked air hazes our understanding vague words stretch our love not strong enough to survive the mutual unseeing of wide spectrum philosophies containing too many shades of grey and not a single solid line over which our hands might touch the chasm is too wide for crossing demonika mp5 single repeat can't touch overwhelming adrenaline prepare, and it still pulls one second down thought trails to meme only on tv, hands of control high risk raid, self defense two seconds down magazine empty pause to admire killing technique fresh circle of pinpoints silence returns dis rage Rage deep within me, rising up from years ago. Memories of fleeing, and having fun. I wish to reach for that time again, Picking up the source, I look around, dropping it to the ground. What once was, and is no longer ... Hatred for all of those ones, from years ago, pureness in expression, and clear of intent. Now reaching over, I picture them, as I pull the trigger. Smashing them to pieces, shattering the pictures of the ghosts, that I wish never were ... I fall to the ground, to only find that there is no end. Rage deep inside of me, burrowing deeper and deeper, until one of these years, I will just all out explode, and will never be pieced back together, again. For, only one can deal so much, as rage builds up in all of me. Violent scenes, past glimpses, I shudder to have to even thought of them, Closing my eyes, one more time, I take a deep breath, to never arise. Me, Myself, and I. October 21st, 1997. half-mast (or; ripping off bukowski again) i am writing this poem with a black pen at work it is an expensive pen and the ink comes out smoothly this is being written on college-ruled loose-leaf paper it is friday, august 1st, 1997 it is 5:32p.m. there are three cars in the station now there are two across the street is the municipal complex there is a library, a police station, and a firehouse there is a U.S. flag waving in front of it it is at half-mast that is where i got the title for this poem the flag is at half-mast because a fireman died in his sleep last friday he was 47 years old and his name was ronald hartranft i never met him but i think his wife was a monster i never met her either he did not burn to death saving lives like he should have instead, last friday, his wife looked at him and he looked at her and he turned around, climbed the stairs, and went to bed i don't blame him nor do i blame us laying in bed instead of saving ourselves glancing at the clock between cigarettes laughing at it with our hands at our throats hoping the other would finish it off and then.. release you get up to go gather your things pause by the stairs turn around and you look at me and i look at you and i wave my hand at half-mast you smile wave back turn again climb down the stairs and leave and i roll over give my salute and go to sleep fighting the fire that took hartranft last friday he was 47 and his wife was a monster styx - thefedz@rad.edu ------------------------------------------------------- E D I T O R S: jericho@dim.com & demonika@dim.com ------------------------------------------------------- to receive new issues via e-mail, send mail to jericho@dimensional.com with "subscribe poetry". if you do not have FTP access and would like back issues, send a list of missing issues and they will be sent. ------------------------------------------------------- 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 ------------------------------------------------------- (c) Copyright. All poems copyright by original author. ------------------------------------------------------- F O U N D E D: October 30, 1997