Minutiae

The most artistically sound and poetically done piece will win. I'll judge in three weeks (July 23).

Gazing upon this petite bottle of perfume

Shaped like a genie bottle

Even though it is from France

It is composed of a middle eastern theme

Quite elegant

It was sent by my mother

For my last girlfriend

Arriving after my lover had abandoned me

It was purchased in Germany

Sent to California

I cannot throw it away

On the merit of it's journey

So it is condemned

To just exist without purpose

Did anyone else hear that pop?
What's the source of that sound?
Someone just open a wine bottle?
Is the answer in lost and found?,
It couldn't be my imagination!
Don't tell me that no one heard!
This is some serious business!
To say I imagined it is simply absurd!,
This is something I must investigate!
Nothing around to explain the sound!
A popping sound doesn't just happen
And it certainly wasn't from underground!,
Did you or you hear that hollow pop?
Anyone chewing any bubble gum?                            
If no then I think it was a brain cell!
I've already killed a fraction of the sum!,
Oh I really hope that wasn't an important one
The queen ant of the brain cells in my head!
I heard something pop and the pop was clear
I hope it wasn't mine but his or hers instead!

I think it started by means of an
idea. It stared at me through and through
I thought
as a reflection. Little platforms about
a post. It seemed
as though it were floating in midair
from my perspective. Fading black
metallic curves enlightened
and made it stand.
And then, from the top arc
fell a bronze strand. On it lay a glass
butterfly, shining greens and pinks
in the
sunlight. From the stunning glass
piece fell another strand of bronze,
this one enveloping itself in circles
and went down to where
it was out of sight, a leaf
green glass ball laying itself to bed
upon the rows of circles. All
together, an antique, a work of art. I
looked to the room to find it.

Then realized it was outside the window.

Sweetheart
What does that even mean?
To define the word as a compliment or a critique
Used by a person who often thinks they stand above me
Or a guy mate whose intentions aren't quite clear
It confuses me
To call me sweet, or sweety would be much more to the point
But sweetheart just makes me sound like a saint
Of which you know I'm not
Does it just mean I have a goodheart?
Of which is sweet enough to notice, but not good enough to love
Or does it mean you've made that jump from friendship to lust
In your head, but can't put it into words
With all that said my head it hurts
And I shall not confront you cos' I'm so often wrong
And if I were to be right, I wouldn't know what to say
So I'll contemplate my next move
Incase oneday you let it slip
But for now I'll just say thank you
Still not knowing waht you evevn meant by it

was on my mind lol xD

A clear mind
............  
       

I'm just listening          
       
The composition of beaded notes        
dive at an angle aimed at my calves        
       
Clear projectiles implode on my skin        
slinking down toward my ankles        
       
       
The rhythm is constant        
       
       
Solid patterns        
       
drumming        
       
playing        
       
trickling        
       
       
A humming opus composed by the grey        
leaving translucent tones around my feet        
 
 
I could listen forever        
 
 
The drenching sound      
makes me
forget..        

Potato Salad

She cuts celery for salad
Holding the knife
Why is she with a man like him
She looks at his head
And looks away
Feels the knife
The way its weight contorts to her palm
Shifts her grip
Imagining the sound
As it plunges into the corpuscles
The nerve bundles
Medula Oblongata
Sitting shallowly under
The short blond tendrils
Barely protecting his  
Open neck

Her blood tastes copper
Realizing she bit her cheek
She attends to her salad
Boiled albumin, cut the yolks
Watching him watching the
Game
Knowing nothing he she nor I
Could ever be anything other
Than a game to a player
Or a travesty to the played
Feeling her forehead turn fire
It's fight or flight
She runs this time
Pandora's box remains untouched

She asks about the weather
Picks up the mixing spoon
And stirs in the mayonnaise

Paper 

To many you are canvas 
Thoughts are freely written on you 
Masterpieces have come from single ideas that where  jotted down 
Things remembered written to be safe
Questions unable to be spoken are neatly placed on you
Handed to a loved one, or a hated one 
Pictures doodled 
Kids learning there abc's 
You are the one thing that can be used to tell secrets to!  And you won't tell anyone a single thing 
Paper is what can be used for anything!! 
 

These earbuds pushed deep into my ears
Meant for Cancelling out all sound
The musical numbers hit my brain waves like a hammer
Smashing away all my thoughts and worries
Each artist has their own unique feel
From angry and upset to upbeat and loving
Each one of them has their own time to shine
Depending on my mood and which sound has the cure
Tyler the creator helps me clear off my chest
While Jessie J makes me feel alive full of joy
Devil Wears Prada & August Burns Red helps me calm down
I guess there is no artist who makes me feel sad
As I press my finger against it in circles to increase its impact
I let my mind wander into the world of music
Escaping this dark cruel world into one
Where the only violence comes from the explosions of bass
Each song starts greeting me with musical harmony
Finishing with emotional tyranny
Until the next song starts and calms them down
I have other items that get me through the day
But having this Ipod sure makes me feel glad

Excellent stuff, ladies and gents. Keep it coming, this competition closes at the end of the week.

every day working
I go to get lunch from the same place
and the skinny girl who serves there
always gives me a solid case of the glad-eye
which doesn’t make the sandwiches taste any better
but 12 bucks is good value for money
for toasted bread
cheese
ham
and a twitch of the cock

rain.






it's raining outside-
and I'm standing on the front porch. just out of reach
watching the water cascade onto the grass
a flood of tears sent from the stars.
I wonder- the sadness they must've seen

and I look at my empty glass. resin of regret- I can still smell it
breathe deep. the stars have nothing on me
-

I've grown tired of this. this waiting-pacing abandoned corridors
living a life of broken dreams/ and minimum wage.
futility- awake to the grind. and hope there's something left tonight

-I washed away a painting yesterday. of a sky- red and orange
just to watch beauty fade. to create from a masterpiece- chaos
and I ran my fingers through the water running down.
the paint was crying- for it's meaning in life was gone
and I laughed.
.this life is nothing but what we make it.
and I've made it hopeless

daunting. are the shadows of this place- this old, familiar place
with a pseudodream. an empty heart. and a pocket once full of hope

the silence lies to me.
-

unprepared and served to the masses. I'd rather dig a hole into my heart
maybe I could see a new life- behind the illusion of emotion
change the channel and stop to watch the static. it's so intoxicating
I'd die. but the ratings wouldn't be good enough.

my hands hurt, and my knuckles are worn
I could have anything I want. within reason- and reason never was
a good friend of mine

I punctured my brain with a bullet of silk.
my lonliness is the only friend that will never run out on me
and my apathy is the only monster that will tear me apart
the soft whispers of another empty promise- tease me
taunt me- take:me:away from here.

-
I ripped the wings from a butterfly. just the other day
and watched it die.

and I'm watching the rain wash away the night.
the fireflies dancing on my tongue- twisting in the smoke
and I put my hand under the falling sky
waiting to see. if my paint will run- if my meaning will be wiped clean
and an empty canvas will be left in my wake

awake. again- at a little past midnight. sleep never comes easy anymore
and the bed is always so cold.

and being alone when the world ends- at that moment just before sleep
when reality isn't real. and dreams don't really matter
life is a myth- and these tears
they're acidic.

-
1am
another glass. and I can't sleep.

My effort: http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/24525/