here's me starting it out. Note: the opinions expressed here are partially my own, partially that of a friend of mine and partially an angry reaction to isis's actions in the middle east/north africa. the gods we leave behind in blasted mosques and dynamited shrines in prayers made of bullets and sermons told from atop the mountain made of child soldiers and civilians lost if they were real more than just the childish fantasies of a species grasping for answers we cannot attain they would hate those who claim their names who kill in the name of protecting omniscient deities who can do fine by themselves i would think what good has god given that He has not then taken ten hundred thousand times away? with inquisitions and crusades jihads and holy wars the black flag of isil waving the cross that Christ was tortured on now the symbol seen as cities burn. yet i still cannot mock those who in the name of god do good.
So there's a story about why I'm posting in a thread created nearly two years ago, in the far off days of 2015. It starts with alcohol. (funny story. Typing skills are the last thing to go for me. I'm leaning in about six inches from my screen because I can't see what I'm doing otherwise, but there have only been a couple typos so far.) The middle part involves me getting bored and curious and deciding to look at the very last page of Kintsugi's general chatter forum. Lo and behold, I found this thread, and was inspired. Here, for the final part, without further ado, is the worst poem I have ever written. I'm wet, I'm hot, don't make me beg. Please stuff your meat between my legs.
Help me and hide me and carry me home I’m wounded and wistful and walking alone But you said you’d follow wherever I roam So help me and hide me and carry me home Love me and lift me and teach me to fly It’s been a long year and I’m missing the sky I don’t have my wings but I’d sure like to try So love me and lift me and teach me to fly Find me and fill me and let me go free There’s dust in the city and smoke in the trees They want me to save them, I can’t even breathe So find me and fill me and let me go free Come and say sorry and pay up your bet I ail in an age of disaster and debt I’ve faked a long time but I ain’t made it yet So come and say sorry and pay up your bet Stop me and stitch me and sop up my blood If I ever stumble and let slip the flood Each time I see morning is more to the good So stop me and stitch me and sop up my blood Help me and hide me and carry me home I’m wounded and wistful and think I’m alone But if you’re still out there, I’m worn to the bone Please help me, and hide me, and carry me home
Hydrogen I am your central steam valve inching higher caffeinating, pacing, writing and erasing, staring out the window at your own unwelcome face welcome to the Hindenburg of yourself from midnight to sunlight for the third night in a row How may I conduct your explosion today?
Love sits alone in her glittering throne (Some say it's golden, but I know it is stone) Pyrite's a pirate for desire and rot Why call them (anyone) something they're not Lovers bring roses, all grown in glass Spraypainted chemicals as green as the grass The picture of poison, all modern as sin She eats every one and allows decay in Love drinks cheap-piss cider by gallon a jug She grows fat on old plastic, becomes her own thug And in each lethal swallow, she backwashes parts Of her glittering soul, her old cardboard hearts Given by lovers, so dead and long past Their graves rot with roses, each one she'll outlast Til their bones become stones become ashes and dust She mistook each one loving, when each came with lust Love sits alone in her glittering throne She could tell you a truth, but her lips have been sewn.
