Submissions by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
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OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
19th Jan 2011 00:30am
19th Jan 2011 00:30am
Sweat-drenched Addiction
Screaming revolt for a wine debauchery, social adultery, a mid-youth cemetery
Quiet races for flags of gold and red and cobalt blue, acknowledgement to the masses.
Her fame, his glory, their greed.
Where innocence is laid upon a ten year olds thighs and spread on a rhino for the modern mammal and his sickness.
Paid. Signed. Sealed. Unrecieved.
Promises broken so quickly by airheads and bureaucrats and the other half of the population, all mentally ill with something.
What beauty lies in fish bowls now when goldfish floats on top, its little eyes bulging, for six year...
Quiet races for flags of gold and red and cobalt blue, acknowledgement to the masses.
Her fame, his glory, their greed.
Where innocence is laid upon a ten year olds thighs and spread on a rhino for the modern mammal and his sickness.
Paid. Signed. Sealed. Unrecieved.
Promises broken so quickly by airheads and bureaucrats and the other half of the population, all mentally ill with something.
What beauty lies in fish bowls now when goldfish floats on top, its little eyes bulging, for six year...
2156 reads
3 Comments
STORY POEM
Published
18th Jan 2011 11:45pm
18th Jan 2011 11:45pm
Suffering
Flowers with pink petals on the open window
in a fish bowl of fresh, clean water.
He sits on french chair
with his beautiful frame that ismuscular, yet soft and fluid and long.
He stares out upon his country vision.
As a child mother and father would dance to 'Abba' in the dining room.
They would kiss and move, two magnets on the floor.
The wind, like music, swept through his cottage, a fleeting wonder, a Spanish dream, drenched in heat.
The only item imperfect, like a single cloud in a blue sky was a photoframe,
face down,
glass surrounding...
in a fish bowl of fresh, clean water.
He sits on french chair
with his beautiful frame that ismuscular, yet soft and fluid and long.
He stares out upon his country vision.
As a child mother and father would dance to 'Abba' in the dining room.
They would kiss and move, two magnets on the floor.
The wind, like music, swept through his cottage, a fleeting wonder, a Spanish dream, drenched in heat.
The only item imperfect, like a single cloud in a blue sky was a photoframe,
face down,
glass surrounding...
907 reads
2 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
17th Jan 2011 00:59am
17th Jan 2011 00:59am
Snoring Flowers
Sleep. The hazy, lazy lullaby; Slumber,
sheep, one sheep, two sheep, three sheep,
Oops! One fell over.
Ouch, that exclamation point hurt my head,
it's thumping.
Thumper.
Count bunnies, yes, bunnies.
One bunny, two bunnies, three bunnies,
and now 'Watership Down' is in my head and all I can see is blood and guts and gammy eye.
Sigh.
Just keep typing, hopefully I'll fall, face down onto the keys and that will be the end to it.
Why?
Three nights in a row I cannot sleep.
The tablets are gone, yet I'm popping Ibprofen to stop the...
sheep, one sheep, two sheep, three sheep,
Oops! One fell over.
Ouch, that exclamation point hurt my head,
it's thumping.
Thumper.
Count bunnies, yes, bunnies.
One bunny, two bunnies, three bunnies,
and now 'Watership Down' is in my head and all I can see is blood and guts and gammy eye.
Sigh.
Just keep typing, hopefully I'll fall, face down onto the keys and that will be the end to it.
Why?
Three nights in a row I cannot sleep.
The tablets are gone, yet I'm popping Ibprofen to stop the...
1031 reads
2 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
17th Jan 2011 00:36am
17th Jan 2011 00:36am
Country western or old black and white?
The chairman's day to step down is near,
still whistling lies in my pale, soft ear, never accepting defeat.
The warrior with glock, knife and wound is
cacooned, in your fresh, dress rehersal.
I play my part, whether it be western or black and white,
"Never fight." That's what my mother told me.
My dalliance with your fierce eyes.
The ties that bound us together now tear us apart.
Could you not have warned me from the start?
The emotional battle you'd conjure within me,
to see, like testing on a rat, what pushed me too far.
To say I missedour ancient...
still whistling lies in my pale, soft ear, never accepting defeat.
The warrior with glock, knife and wound is
cacooned, in your fresh, dress rehersal.
I play my part, whether it be western or black and white,
"Never fight." That's what my mother told me.
My dalliance with your fierce eyes.
The ties that bound us together now tear us apart.
Could you not have warned me from the start?
The emotional battle you'd conjure within me,
to see, like testing on a rat, what pushed me too far.
To say I missedour ancient...
1825 reads
2 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
15th Jan 2011 4:14am
15th Jan 2011 4:14am
Four Am Ramblings
I entered this, atfour am, when sleep was lost and I felt too drowsy,
so shoot me for failure of my typical word-vomit, I'm slashed of observation and skill.
I need to write him down; in all his faults and flaws to forget his forgery.
Who was he anyway?
Did I ever see the real him behind those wicked, blue eyes?And was he there to taunt, torture and torment me when I could not sleep, when I needed love.
It echoes, like a cat howling in the bathroom, hitting and bouncing off damp walls.
He doesn't aid my talent, in fact he drags me down, rinderance,to a typical...
so shoot me for failure of my typical word-vomit, I'm slashed of observation and skill.
I need to write him down; in all his faults and flaws to forget his forgery.
Who was he anyway?
Did I ever see the real him behind those wicked, blue eyes?And was he there to taunt, torture and torment me when I could not sleep, when I needed love.
It echoes, like a cat howling in the bathroom, hitting and bouncing off damp walls.
He doesn't aid my talent, in fact he drags me down, rinderance,to a typical...
895 reads
2 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
15th Jan 2011 1:54am
15th Jan 2011 1:54am
Rhyming, like a champ
I had to write one more 'fore I say goodbye
to the old rhyming scheme that brightened the day.
It wasn't particularly interesting or clever or witty
but it always picked me up when I was feeling sh*tty.
The words have been dropped for a wise little beat
that I picked up from the noise your heels made on the street.
This is just one last one to finish the pack
like the cigarettes that I haven't managed to sack,
or the stars that simply sparkled effortlessly in the sky.
I sat here wondering why I couldn't have their talent, their style, their will
to sit...
to the old rhyming scheme that brightened the day.
It wasn't particularly interesting or clever or witty
but it always picked me up when I was feeling sh*tty.
The words have been dropped for a wise little beat
that I picked up from the noise your heels made on the street.
This is just one last one to finish the pack
like the cigarettes that I haven't managed to sack,
or the stars that simply sparkled effortlessly in the sky.
I sat here wondering why I couldn't have their talent, their style, their will
to sit...
990 reads
6 Comments
DRUGS POEM
Published
14th Jan 2011 7:42pm
14th Jan 2011 7:42pm
Red Light Drug Habit.
The look in her eyes,
the wash of disdain,
the crystalised, effortless teeth inside jaw.
They are incarcerated inher mouth and held for ransom to the tongues of old men.
'Isodol.' The whispers and screams and faked-orgasms for the pleasure of men years her senior.
She stares at her own cleavage,
as theepitome of low self-esteem.
Daddy never came to those horse lessons, or dance lessons, or piano
and she was good, she was good in her youth.
Afive year old star, who was washed up at twelve.
She's blooming into arebellious fourteen year old,
and worse,...
the wash of disdain,
the crystalised, effortless teeth inside jaw.
They are incarcerated inher mouth and held for ransom to the tongues of old men.
'Isodol.' The whispers and screams and faked-orgasms for the pleasure of men years her senior.
She stares at her own cleavage,
as theepitome of low self-esteem.
Daddy never came to those horse lessons, or dance lessons, or piano
and she was good, she was good in her youth.
Afive year old star, who was washed up at twelve.
She's blooming into arebellious fourteen year old,
and worse,...
1007 reads
4 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
13th Jan 2011 3:19pm
13th Jan 2011 3:19pm
Every old soldier and acting damsel
A sorry soul of sickness and sanitation swallowed whole by the salvation of
solitude,
where these tales of woe and worry wear thin like the whispers of wailing, weak
children will not bow,
and bear boils with burning baskets of bile and bleak buried bombs in their baths
of basilicon,
each apple of ablepsia aching on the abortion of an acting mothers accourting.
They meet mabsoot men in their madness of meaningless mumbles with mortified
maids, and their mistakes.
Very tired tables turned from taking tablets to take thick thighs to tears and
tobacco...
solitude,
where these tales of woe and worry wear thin like the whispers of wailing, weak
children will not bow,
and bear boils with burning baskets of bile and bleak buried bombs in their baths
of basilicon,
each apple of ablepsia aching on the abortion of an acting mothers accourting.
They meet mabsoot men in their madness of meaningless mumbles with mortified
maids, and their mistakes.
Very tired tables turned from taking tablets to take thick thighs to tears and
tobacco...
820 reads
2 Comments
SPIRITUAL POEM
Published
12th Jan 2011 2:39pm
12th Jan 2011 2:39pm
A chain to religion.
Salvation- noGodly pasture, it is the moors I walk,
screaming the name of a less than holy man,
mud covered shoes,mud covereddress,
Anne Hathaway, Heathcliff,Mercutiowould be proud.
I gave nothing to recieve nothing,
or I gave everything to fall at the last hurdle.
Running, shooting, tripping, grazing my knees on your razor-sharp words.
Cold and steeland real likeyour swordthatstrikes me.
The bone that lifted out ofsafe-haven fleshto show crimson lines of veins and puss.
Infection.
Did you not wash your sword 'fore striking me?
The internal worm...
screaming the name of a less than holy man,
mud covered shoes,mud covereddress,
Anne Hathaway, Heathcliff,Mercutiowould be proud.
I gave nothing to recieve nothing,
or I gave everything to fall at the last hurdle.
Running, shooting, tripping, grazing my knees on your razor-sharp words.
Cold and steeland real likeyour swordthatstrikes me.
The bone that lifted out ofsafe-haven fleshto show crimson lines of veins and puss.
Infection.
Did you not wash your sword 'fore striking me?
The internal worm...
904 reads
2 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
12th Jan 2011 00:49am
12th Jan 2011 00:49am
Furry tails have happy endings.
Furry tails have happy endings.
I'm dripping, with the black liquid you dropped, from your paint pot,
on my head, from two storeys high, or stories,
like the tales you told me in the early hours of day, or tails,
like the animal that brushes it's way around my heels so affectionately. It heals.
The pain that you feel when the mental wind sweeps you up and everything seems ten times worse.
Pane, the window pane I looked through waiting for a father who would never love me
and I threw, threw away the only present he had given me, my blonde hair, but I am...
I'm dripping, with the black liquid you dropped, from your paint pot,
on my head, from two storeys high, or stories,
like the tales you told me in the early hours of day, or tails,
like the animal that brushes it's way around my heels so affectionately. It heals.
The pain that you feel when the mental wind sweeps you up and everything seems ten times worse.
Pane, the window pane I looked through waiting for a father who would never love me
and I threw, threw away the only present he had given me, my blonde hair, but I am...
1084 reads
0 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
11th Jan 2011 3:42pm
11th Jan 2011 3:42pm
Old Age Plane.
I'm going to stop all the planes
to stop you from running away.
The Empire State Building cannot make you fly,
nor can the Eiffel Tower,
and no jump from the Tower Bridge will aid in your angelic agenda.
I'm going to stop all the planes,
as I visit our flat,
the photographs of times long since past,
the walls painted witha disposable white,
like the edges of our personalities.
I've never been to that flat,
a secretive venture you locked away in your head,
and crushed.
You drove a two ton Hummer into what was,
destroying all that's...
to stop you from running away.
The Empire State Building cannot make you fly,
nor can the Eiffel Tower,
and no jump from the Tower Bridge will aid in your angelic agenda.
I'm going to stop all the planes,
as I visit our flat,
the photographs of times long since past,
the walls painted witha disposable white,
like the edges of our personalities.
I've never been to that flat,
a secretive venture you locked away in your head,
and crushed.
You drove a two ton Hummer into what was,
destroying all that's...
919 reads
6 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
