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A Few Old Poems and Pieces

This forum is for members to share their original prose, poetry, and even fan fiction. Please be aware that The RPG Collective takes plagiarism very seriously and will uphold the relevant laws.

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A Few Old Poems and Pieces

Post by TheWrongGuy » Sat Jan 17, 2015 10:19 pm

Every writer has a poem in them, sadly. I'm not much on my own poetry... I do like Blake and Donne, quite a bit as you can probably tell. It's not like I need to inflict this on people. It's more like I have lyrical boil that needs lancing and I might as well humiliate myself in the process, by making it public. ><;; Everything you'll find here is overwrought, nebulous and rhymey. So it's no good criticizing. I know; the damage is done. That said, some of em are kinda picturesque-ish.



The Great Marionette

In a dusty attic
All allayed with grime,
Sputtered by moths
And bested by time.

Where we caught an old puppet
Out of a discolored cage,
Strung in a web
Of its own plastic strings.

Somber in face,
And somber in dress.
Sad were the sounds
That its hinges protest.

Pedals like petals,
Hoisted the doll.
Smoke and sounds of metal
Helped to settle the pall.

Lamps and lanterns illuminate
The pantomime, and translate,
The motions of our captive mime.
In Waltzing time

Its little wooden clogs
Danced across the dresser.
We laughed as we forced it
To dance Tarantellas.

To our laughs, it would frown.
We'd spin it around.
Clatter midst clutter,
And rattle to ground.
Twas neither a matter
Deep nor profound,
Unto which wit
Or meaning was bound.




The Tragedy of Dead Allen Ryfe

Hence came the tragedy of dead Allen Ryfe

He screamed as he fell, downside the mine
A shaft but twenty feet, twenty by nine
He landed just fine
Inches from the edge of a steep decline

There shined his torch in slick black earth
Foundlings cry for their mothers at birth
Greater did Allen cry, all he was worth...

Standing in front, barefoot and wet
Was Allen's dead sister, little Annette
In her pretty lace gown, with her collar turned down

She smiled a smile that could scare a sin
A smile that soon became a grin
At that, Allen then stopped his din
And stared at the face of his little dead twin

I called to him straight, to look again
That twas naught there, nor had there been
He swore I was wrong, then swore again
And then stumbled down to meet his ill-end

Miss we the most
That which we've lost


-TWG
Last edited by TheWrongGuy on Thu Feb 05, 2015 5:20 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: A Few Old Poems

Post by TheWrongGuy » Fri Jan 23, 2015 7:38 am

This one...is working for me right now. *downs a whole beer* That one was for you, Charles B.

Psaltery of the Soul

To the soul, alcohol does sultry play
And in dizzy sickness, do we obey
In the meadow, mead we drink
And into inebriation sink
Metheglyn, deep and clean
For the brave impassioned being
"By spirits, raise thy spirits"
Or so the barkeep calls

Soaked and soggy we paint ourselves
And in recompense, lose gray cells
Wine, O wine, to taste we refine
And then in flavors do we rhyme
Brandy, brandy the English keep handy
But to the taste buds it's a dandy
"By spirits, raise thy spirits"
Or so the barkeep calls

To the soul alcohol does sultry play
While toxins we imbibe
Or do we, on our deathbeds say
I wish I had not drunk that rye
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Re: A Few Old Poems

Post by TheWrongGuy » Mon Jan 26, 2015 7:35 am

Elemental Birth

"Caught in the bellow's burning bolero, of sparks of warm anger.
Caught in the hot, powerful pot of the fetid red volcano.
The archaic heat, predates the aseptic seed,
Sewn by the hands of men."

"Caught in the rain's trickling tickle, of drops of cold refusal.
Caught in the slow, drag and flow of the icy river bed.
The aborning cold, before the tangible warming fold,
Forged by the hands of men."


Thanksgiving

they never believe that once in a world
cruelty could befall one so young
that youth was easy and age unsung

ravens pinched her flesh and fed
one prying, sickly prying
her eyeball from her head

of this poor girl and poorer world
only one thing could be said
thank death that she was dead
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Re: A Few Old Poems

Post by TheWrongGuy » Wed Jan 28, 2015 8:25 am

The Battle Pass

As I was standing beneath the Pass
Steadfast I stood, but stood aghast
Any man with an ear
Could not help but hear
The pound of the drums…

They screamed:
“Retreat, Retreat! RETREAT!”

Dun and Crimson hued
The world was it’s span
Never before would a “man”
stand where I was glued

Snaking through the mountains
No crooked path or high peak Contends
The higher it ascends,
The more snow and blood blends…

“Retreat, Retreat! RETREAT!”

Little did the doom and fire
Courage Inspire, instead faltered ire
High and higher
Like a dead fang of the world…

Deep and steep
Did that Stygian band beat
Dank caves that Evils replete
Those maddening drums over and over repeat…

“Retreat, Retreat! RETREAT!”

And in all of this storm of earth
Was a hidden bony song
Sung by monsters of War
That littered it’s murky firth

“Dare you stay when you should go?
Snow and wind bite and blow
Retreat, Retreat! RETREAT!

Did you smell the blood we spilt?
Can you hear the screams that lilt
Dead and curled are the keeps we built
Bodies piled so high that the world will tilt

Dare the Path and Shun the Peak
The Brave die high and the meek
Retreat, Retreat! RETREAT!"
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Re: A Few Old Poems and Pieces

Post by TheWrongGuy » Thu Feb 05, 2015 5:25 pm

This is an untitled work that started as a poem, evolved into an unfinished story and sits here now as an...I-don't-know-what. Normally I wouldn't post prose here. I would hang onto it in the greedy and paranoid delusion that it might be publishable(and yet never attempt to publish it under the dominating fear that I am incredibly wrong). But this really isn't...publishable. It's also not horrible enough for me to forget or delete. It's not especially anything. So...Click and read if you d/care.

It wasn’t a perfect barricade. Eisen could still hear the frantic scraping at the latch of his doors. He could hear them hoot and howl and rage through the gaps in the old house’s hollows and flaws, and he might steal a glance of one of their horrid twisted fingers tapping at the glass of his windows.

It was maddening. For what other purposes could such architectural structures serve? A door to allow you to come and go as you please, but also to keep things out. Things such as sounds, cold and intruders being the target exclusions. Windows to invite warmth and sunlight, but to disallow any loss of privacy via internal contrivances such as a blind or a shade. A wall to safeguard the interior of any given structure; to allow tenants behind the wall to enjoy privacy, safety and seclusion from any outside force. Yet evidences of failure of all of these were blatant. Eisen could not leave. He could not leave!

What use was a door? It was just a taunt now. Windows!? There was no sun, no warmth and nothing exterior he would like to survey. And the walls, what use were walls? Did the walls muffle those horrible noises? Did they even stymie the claustrophobic paranoia, that atmosphere of choking strangling garroting evil-will that stalked their very measurements? Perfect barricade… It was all that remained.

It was old man John Keats who had sat on the weathered wooden floors just the other day and told Eisen of everything outside. He had done this before, of course. He would sit with his boots outright, his legs forming a “V”. He would bring out a metal bottle and slam it down on the floor to pop the top. He would take an oblong white tablet from the bottle, hold it up and snap it in-two, swallowing the larger half and tossing the other away later, into the trash.

Eisen had seen one up-close when old man John Keats was not looking. It was a plain pill, mostly. It just had the faint symbol of a cog. The old sort, carefully and delicately teethed and threaded, predestined for their match to facilitate something false and anodyne like a pocket watch.

The old man would brush his locks of long straw-gray hair behind both of his shoulders, look up at Eisen and speak, pointing to the great front window, which was shuttered and shaded:

“I cannot see--but darkness, death and darkness. Even here, into my centre of repose. The shady visions come to domineer, insult, and blind and stifle up my pomp.”

Eisen seized a small framed daguerreotype from atop his piano and stared at it. It was Jon Andersdade. Eisen remembered him.

Jon Andersdade was a fiend. Jonathan M. Andersdade esquire was a quarter-ton brewmeister of the local Shakerag ale brewery. He had a sanguine nature and a sanguine complexion, with a rosy mustache and Irish mutton chops. Very hale, hearty and Father Christmas-like, was Jon Andersdade. No problem from a friend was too small or too great. Whatever it was, it was just a word from his mouth and mountains would move. But, and this proves true to even the friendly and innocent who wield power, nearly everyone was a little frightened of Jon Andersdade. But this didn’t dampen his spirits. He was a guardian force of the community and friend to all. He was thoroughly marketable as some impossible cross between a Mafioso and the Laughing Buddha.

Eisen sat the small framed daguerreotype of Jon Andersdade back onto the top of his dusty old Wurlitzer piano. Old Man William Blake had taught him ages ago what those people actually were below their layers of fat and smiles. And it disgusted him to see the face from his remembered past. His recollection of Andersdade without the photo was of a cartoonish caricature, with rolling fat cheeks and a bloated obese ego barely squeezed into the human confines of a body, so much so that Eisen pictured the man‘s skin splitting and tearing from the outward pressure.

It was time to visit the old bottom dungeon. It was time to visit the bottom dungeon. Eisen turned, knocking over a package of heavy tallow candles that broke open and rolled across the hardwood floor. There was a piercing canine bark. Not a bark of anger or warning, which would’ve more likely been a snarl. But simply one of unsatisfied curiosity.

Eisen turned and saw a hideous ragged brown dog. It had mangled hair that varied in length and it had large bare patch-like sores about it’s body. The creature itself came up to Eisen‘s bottom ribs. But something was physically wrong with it, it looked misshapen. Whatever breed it was, was nothing Eisen had ever seen. It had the build of what he would’ve taken for a smaller dog, such as a Chihuahua and indeed, it had mostly shortish hair. It’s cranium was disproportionately large to it’s body and was huge and heavy looking, full of jaw and apple-headed.

It wanted him to pay attention. It was time to visit the old bottom dungeon, but the dog must be heard first. Had it come from anywhere? Had he always had a dog? For the life of him he couldn’t remember. Dear God!! Was there a door open!? Could things get in!?

The Dog barked, this time sending the sound bouncing around like a racquet ball, with a fierceness that made Eisen’s eyes flinch. Eisen had just been thinking about Jon Andersdade…could the dog be Jon Andersdade? Did that make sense? Eisen’s head hurt. It was too late. He heard them fumble into the house from outside. The dog began to snarl. The barricade had finally failed.
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Re: A Few Old Poems and Pieces

Post by TheWrongGuy » Fri Feb 06, 2015 3:51 pm

I wrote this back during the Occupy Wall Street protests as sort of a poet laureate thing. It's so dated, now that everyone has forgotten the protest. But I liked it. It would probably help you to know that this poem is told from the perspective of Blackadder from the British series of the same name.


Blackadder in the Grass


"Hah! Every chap, bloke and chip off the block
wants to dabble their toes in the kiddie pool of dreams.
Now, frankly, the whole thing smells of feet.
Finally, people are starting to hold their noses.

D’ya see this, George? Hah! Occupy Wall Street indeed.


Even I, a man of stone-cold bottomless greed and a certified liar,
can’t tell where the avarice starts and the stupidity ends.
Half of these protesters probably put their protesting expenses on their Mastercard.
But the whole world is Occupying Wall Street!
No George, not the actual street. Git…


Why? To put it in terms of a pataphysical metaphor, George,
the fat cats went past ‘Go’ 50 times with one roll of the die.
They used that money to buy every property in the game,
then packed up all the pieces, money, board and cards,
shipped it all to Switzerland and locked it in a safe, and now
everyone remembers why they hated the game in the first place.


Yes, George, it certainly does mean they won the game.
At least, until the other 99% of the players get the oil hot,
and remember where they left their pitchforks and torches.
Then we’ll graduate to Cluedo and try to figure out who killed Mr. Capitalism.
Was it Dr. Bill, Prof. Loan, or General Arseheads
...
No, no, George, not actual fat cats, it was an idiom."
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Re: A Few Old Poems and Pieces

Post by TheWrongGuy » Mon Feb 16, 2015 5:20 pm

Classical Thunder

Classical Thunder in a Pearl Shell
Ivory Eyes to Match the Veil
With Lips of Gold
To Shape and Mold
The Thoughts of the Victim's Mind


The Jealousy Lyric

And So Flowers from Corpses Grow
The Sad Light they Sow
Strike the Bereaved
And those Filled with Woe
To Dishearten and Make Unwhole
And Make Precious Mockery
Of the Life they Stole


-twg
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Re: A Few Old Poems and Pieces

Post by TheWrongGuy » Sun Feb 22, 2015 8:58 pm

Incondite

Resentment of Sneaky
Tricky in it's Wicked Crimes
Grim with Even Heat
Worst when Sick
Sad and Self-Aggrandizing
Needles and Needless

Skint and Crawl
Spun...
Turn...
Grew...
Fool!

Pretties are my Gentry
Mad not dirty
Lies Farewell a Corpse
gauntlet at my feet
writings on the wall


-TWG
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Re: A Few Old Poems and Pieces

Post by TheWrongGuy » Tue Feb 24, 2015 5:17 am

I decided to try writing a poem in the quick reply and this was the result. I don't know if I'm happy or sad about it. I was going somewhere with it...but I really have no perspective on my own work. It could be and probably is like all of my poetry probably is, not worth the time I spent on it. If nothing else it keeps my WPM, vocabulary and imagination in respectable use.

How the World Fell

I sent a cold wind blowing...
I wanted a trust to be forged, a kingdom to rule
But all the pretties, grim and wicked came crawling out.
Even applied heat, but you...
You haimish little liars and your tin gods...
It's a bust and now all they want is a hand out
A piece of my pie, a stack of my stash
Lignify doubt Scarify intransigent
Not a single human can you trust
The final conclusion has yet to be reached
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Re: A Few Old Poems and Pieces

Post by TheWrongGuy » Sun Mar 08, 2015 7:36 pm

I have no idea what weird tripped-out way I managed to work this out, but I suppose it is a poem, so I'll go with my gut feeling and put it in here.

Activate Powers

Headbanging from the cobwebs in my mind, doing some swinging.
How has it come to shaving cream, blood and razors?
There's a long dark way to fall, with cold air rising.
The neon streets beside me, the rubber horns of passing cars...
Here it comes again, It's Christmas time...
The sound of airplanes landing in old movies...
Sinking in my Lazy-boy chair...
Looney Toons is bleeding through my brains
And I'm chewing that gritty water
Everything's the same when you read my book with my brick lens glasses.
I can't kill it. It's already on fire.
One day I will make a flamethrower from a fire extinguisher.
-TWG
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Antithesis

Post by TheWrongGuy » Mon Mar 09, 2015 12:12 pm

Antithesis

Black and white are varied enough
The art is in the mixture and use
When the mix is fine and the texture rough
Black and white do sign a truce

Man's complexion may be shades of gray
But the color and consistency are his fault
For if he teeters towards one or either way
He is doomed to fall or exalt

Why not have just the color white?
For a light too bright will eyes blind
If not black, then no white
They are both a chemistry to the mind

For you would never know the cure
If it were not for the disease
Both maintain their state, so pure
They both, together are an antithesis


-TWG
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Musings on a Vase(A Pataphor)

Post by TheWrongGuy » Wed Mar 18, 2015 5:51 am

Adult language warning...
Musings on a Vase
The woman on the street held up a vase with the powers of her mind. She examined the vase scrupulously. She saw that it was round and had layers and streaks in it. She decided that the vase being round was a good thing. She decided that layers were good. Not all things were round. Not all things were layered, she reasoned. That's good that all things aren't like this. But it's also good that this thing is like this, when other things aren't.

I like that it's white and cream-colored, she thought.

At first the white was the white of a crumpled piece of paper or like a flower. Then the white was the swaddling cloth around a baby. Then the white was the white of a flake of snow. The white of the vase became more and more beautiful as her brain realized that all the things that were white were connected. Her brain loved connections, as it was itself, modestly, a set of connections. People in the street began to stop and stare at the woman and her wonderful vase. They had seen the myriad of whites in the vase change too. They, too, liked the roundness of the vase and they liked the layers.

One person in the street pointed out that it had streaks in it. Another, noticed as well, and said so. The woman decided that the streaks were not enough like the roundness and whiteness of the vase. If she strained her eye, she could tell where the streaks started and ended. She didn't think that was quite as good as the roundness of the vase. In fact, why did the streaks have to start and end? They distracted from the roundness. What in point of fact was the purpose of a streak? It wasn't like the roundness. It almost was, but not quite. Where the streak ended and where it began were so close, why couldn't they just connect and then it would be like the roundness, like the layers.

Then the woman remembered that white was the color of flowers. And flowers wilt and die. And paper yellows and rots. And babies swaddling clothes become old and used. Snow melts and becomes water that floats in sewers. The white of the vase now, did not seem very bright...or very white. The roundness was nothing new and kept being round, which was boring.

The streaks, however, seemed rather more like something. The streaks weren't like the roundness or dying flowers. They were streaks! No infinite rings or layers. They started. They stopped. Streaks: as a thing that happens, eventually, they will stop happening. That was unlike the roundness, or the layers, or the whites.

Someone pointed out that the streaks weren't white at all; they were cream-colored. The woman saw this and nodded. Damn right, they were fucking cream-colored. Because cream is amazing, compared to plain old white. Cream has identity and Cream has distinction. Cream isn't some old-ass flowery-white. Cream doesn't need white. White could be there or not be there with it's pansy dying flower colors and baby swaddling cloth. Cream, the other white. The new white! No one would want white, if there could be cream... Everything... Should... Be cream-colored...

One of the passerbies in the street wanted to see the cream. He couldn't see the cream, whereas all of his colleagues were gazing on it with abandon. He walked forward to see the cream, trying to hem his way through the now monstrous crowd. The passerby pushed over a person onto the street and that person fell onto yet another person and another and another and they all began falling onto each other until one last final person fell onto the poor woman who was examining the vase, so that she cut herself and bled onto the vase.

There was hush as people stilled their breathing...daring not to MOVE. They saw the blood that touched the vase. They saw where it had hit. One of the street onlookers managed to pick himself up and point at it and say:

"Great job, you lot, now we have fucking spots!"

There was a collective sigh. And the examination continued....ad nauseum... And that is what the Universe is like.


CREDITS

In this Pataphor:

The woman was played by God
The crowd was played by Us.
The vase was played by the world.
The Roundness was played by Eternity
The Whiteness was played by The Fabric of Existence
The Streak was played by False Vacuum(Quantum Physics Field Theory)
The Blood and Spots were played by Jesus
The Cream was played by The Dichotomy of Energy vs Matter
The world was played by God.
God was played by Us.
And we were played by God...
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Re: A Few Old Poems and Pieces

Post by TheWrongGuy » Sun Jun 07, 2015 4:55 am

This next piece isn't titled. I worked around with it and finally decided there was no use. Sort of a fatalism. It was supposed to be a piece on gun control, because there's good value on this stuff in Kentucky, but that fire in my mind faded with time.

"The fire in his mind,
would have faded with time."
So it is, that the souls reaped,
Blame the scythe and not the thief.
That at this auction, life is polled
Death is gold and was bought and rolled
And to mere propaganda, sold.

To be honest, I'm running out of old poems and pieces that I either A: want to part with or B: have. I don't want to write any more because poetry really is just something budding authors muddle with before they realize they're awful at it and move on. I've moved on, mostly. My teenage years of thinking I had profound things to say or that the world was interested/listening...those have faded. Now it's just an older wiser dog who has finally tired of hearing himself bark at the moon. Still, it's nice to come back and glance at some of the old songs. They're the friends you had when you were a kid, just as you left them and just as embarrassingly simple.

-TWG
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Re: A Few Old Poems and Pieces

Post by TheWrongGuy » Wed Dec 06, 2017 10:04 pm

Out of All Proportion

Some days I put my skin on wrong.
Wrong, with a slight tilt.
The smile is crooked.
My eyes don't match up.
The slack flesh gathers in handfuls
at the odd angles of my frame.

If you could take em, handful by handful
And pull it all straight,
Bespoke like a glove,
So that the measurements agree
And the symmetry shows.
You'd realize that it's still a bit crooked
By just a pinch.

Wasting time with calipers and ruler tape,
Sewing machines and cat gut.
But under each raised eyebrow,
The scrutiny leaves it looser,
Shabbier, Until I've worn it ragged.
And then, no birthday tailor,
could fix this birthday suit.

And I have to be proud of the wear,
because I have nothing else to wear.


-TWG
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