Submissions by MrAlptraum (Mr A)
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
9th Nov 2018 11:12pm
9th Nov 2018 11:12pm
AND IF I DON'T STOP SO FKN WHAT
if we knew each other's true secrets we'd be
single forever but then we write
them in poems and hope nobody
takes it seriously. my dog wrote
a poem about how he'd love
to learn to swim in me.
his honesty is an alien love.
I must drink beer. moderately end regularly
to calm my inside dragon.
if you think you are zero percent dragon
you are ridiculous.
I'm not radical or made of wind alone.
ewe touch me like a melting lake.
by waking I slay dragons.
I watched a deep red sunrise ...
single forever but then we write
them in poems and hope nobody
takes it seriously. my dog wrote
a poem about how he'd love
to learn to swim in me.
his honesty is an alien love.
I must drink beer. moderately end regularly
to calm my inside dragon.
if you think you are zero percent dragon
you are ridiculous.
I'm not radical or made of wind alone.
ewe touch me like a melting lake.
by waking I slay dragons.
I watched a deep red sunrise ...
#water
445 reads
2 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
16th Apr 2018 10:47pm
16th Apr 2018 10:47pm
ALL THE I LOVE YOUS
#humankind
683 reads
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
25th Mar 2018 3:18am
25th Mar 2018 3:18am
IT'S BEEN A DARK FEW DAYS
young falcons are making seagull cries the fields are stationary green waves glistening smell of cow shit wet shoes crickets unmoving sound dancing out the flowers everywhere sign refusing dog shit hidden by a big bush sign saying wanderweg without an arrow body runs in every direction at the same time instinctively the sun widens only if I look at its photospheric emission so it stays thin as music you're singing too am I paranoid is everything singing when I'm not there
#aliens
752 reads
3 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
22nd Mar 2018 9:10pm
22nd Mar 2018 9:10pm
MAYBE THEY DON'T SOUND LIKE GULLS AT ALL
fledgling falcons sound just like seagulls again today
and when I hear it I shut my eyes
and feel the sun
and hear the wind
and it's enough
to remind my skinless beast
of vast edges.
nostalgia is a melancholic great
waste of emotion.
time is an onion being sliced
slowly and forever.
I fear artificial lighting and vascular hangovers
and being too proud to just turn alien on drugs and really
embrace my islandness.
I can shut my eyes in the rain and think
of absolutely nothing.
not even absence ...
and when I hear it I shut my eyes
and feel the sun
and hear the wind
and it's enough
to remind my skinless beast
of vast edges.
nostalgia is a melancholic great
waste of emotion.
time is an onion being sliced
slowly and forever.
I fear artificial lighting and vascular hangovers
and being too proud to just turn alien on drugs and really
embrace my islandness.
I can shut my eyes in the rain and think
of absolutely nothing.
not even absence ...
#aliens
730 reads
7 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
9th Aug 2017 8:59pm
9th Aug 2017 8:59pm
...
even death moves. moves at the speed of light.
that's why the stars are so far away
and you can still see them.
their death is pure.
stars know only absolute circle death.
and what about that phone call?
you knew it was coming but not when.
you put the phone down and ppl ask are you alright?
you say yeah cos it's not you that's dead.
you go for a walk and everything is slow
when death's blitzed thru.
at the funeral everybody is saying sorry
and other cultural words but language is the deadest thing
since thousands and thousands...
that's why the stars are so far away
and you can still see them.
their death is pure.
stars know only absolute circle death.
and what about that phone call?
you knew it was coming but not when.
you put the phone down and ppl ask are you alright?
you say yeah cos it's not you that's dead.
you go for a walk and everything is slow
when death's blitzed thru.
at the funeral everybody is saying sorry
and other cultural words but language is the deadest thing
since thousands and thousands...
#identity
#technology
#confessional
#myself
#WritingPoetry
1099 reads
14 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
16th Feb 2014 6:22pm
16th Feb 2014 6:22pm
coalesce
saddled still with yesterday's clothes
nothing spectacular or
anything vacant my toothbrush spins
back in its beaker towel wears the toothpaste
the weather is as far as it's gotten
in any of the last weeks' conversations
I'd better keep my eyes near the window
that when I open it gives me birds
cars but no wind without noise
I am undiscovered just like before
before morning before its morning
it's twice twice in one day
that sky lays a domino I can't win
I get comfy and despair because
not in spite
nothing spectacular or
anything vacant my toothbrush spins
back in its beaker towel wears the toothpaste
the weather is as far as it's gotten
in any of the last weeks' conversations
I'd better keep my eyes near the window
that when I open it gives me birds
cars but no wind without noise
I am undiscovered just like before
before morning before its morning
it's twice twice in one day
that sky lays a domino I can't win
I get comfy and despair because
not in spite
1248 reads
8 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
8th Feb 2014 11:45am
8th Feb 2014 11:45am
But They do not Leave
They come to me at work, as they often do.
Arms folded. Resilient. What now?
the smallest asks. Now, I say, now this;
now the colourless job and the not talking to anyone
except kids and animals. All my friends have gone
and gone into the deepening gulf above my face.
There are too many things for me to know
but there are things to know better — sole secrecy —
by taking what is near and shrinking it:
I want to remember that next time I walk
the lower path in the woods by the cattle farm
to breathe only through my nose again,
to know...
Arms folded. Resilient. What now?
the smallest asks. Now, I say, now this;
now the colourless job and the not talking to anyone
except kids and animals. All my friends have gone
and gone into the deepening gulf above my face.
There are too many things for me to know
but there are things to know better — sole secrecy —
by taking what is near and shrinking it:
I want to remember that next time I walk
the lower path in the woods by the cattle farm
to breathe only through my nose again,
to know...
876 reads
3 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
2nd Nov 2013 4:30pm
2nd Nov 2013 4:30pm
...
The maroon clouds press through the hills
like a lung dying and collapsing. The landscape
is a chest torn in half.
The king asked me to the top of his hill
before the sun broke. Asked me to stand
and face the wind. Below are towns sleeping
in surreal greys and blacks. He asks me, do you feel
each rain drop individually? No, I say.
Do you know every person in these towns? No.
I do, he breathes. My mind is a furnace, he starts,
getting rid of everything it acquired. Piece by piece. I am old,
and I am permitted the present only.
There...
like a lung dying and collapsing. The landscape
is a chest torn in half.
The king asked me to the top of his hill
before the sun broke. Asked me to stand
and face the wind. Below are towns sleeping
in surreal greys and blacks. He asks me, do you feel
each rain drop individually? No, I say.
Do you know every person in these towns? No.
I do, he breathes. My mind is a furnace, he starts,
getting rid of everything it acquired. Piece by piece. I am old,
and I am permitted the present only.
There...
1437 reads
25 Comments
ANGER POEM
Published
25th Oct 2013 5:37pm
25th Oct 2013 5:37pm
Calling Shots
Poem, cunt,
I will fucking eat you
long before you eat me.
I will fucking eat you
long before you eat me.
838 reads
8 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
24th Oct 2013 4:12pm
24th Oct 2013 4:12pm
Chameleonic
Photographs: flat thoughts; memory
replacements. A claim to existence. "I saw
the rust of Autumn, the black and white (dead
or alive) of winter. I was 'ere." We photograph
it all. Each new change again. We can remember precisely,
or forget humanly.
Your hair is curling Autumn in the rain.
Clouds look so nice but they just blow away.
The wind is so strong it snatches my voice
before I even speak. The pines rattle.
Your tongue is yours again.
We were a pin from a distance on the sand;
sharp and dug in at the same place....
replacements. A claim to existence. "I saw
the rust of Autumn, the black and white (dead
or alive) of winter. I was 'ere." We photograph
it all. Each new change again. We can remember precisely,
or forget humanly.
Your hair is curling Autumn in the rain.
Clouds look so nice but they just blow away.
The wind is so strong it snatches my voice
before I even speak. The pines rattle.
Your tongue is yours again.
We were a pin from a distance on the sand;
sharp and dug in at the same place....
715 reads
10 Comments
NON-FICTION PROSE
Published
17th Oct 2013 10:12am
17th Oct 2013 10:12am
Sub-rosa Extant
I finish work at ten-thirty, and go home on foot — just a seven minute walk. There's a person walking up the road ahead of me: white coat, closed umbrella. No rain, but wet pavements bouncing the yellow lights. Can't tell if it's male or female; looks female: has an umbrella. Stops at the bus-stop. Sits. Few street-lights brighten this end of the street, but the bus-stop glows like it's unbelonging. There are no buses for nearly thirty minutes. She sees me walking up the road. Stands, and continues walking away from me, until the white of her coat turns a muted silver. At the darkest point....
1054 reads
13 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
10th Oct 2013 8:48pm
10th Oct 2013 8:48pm
Junkie Jenny
But we'll call her Jenny, four dimensional fuck up.
With a third world figure; drink struggling her flat veins
as she stood in my living-room, bored probably.
I couldn't tell if she was fresh, or just dragged the winter in.
We were both a kind of lonely. Told me how she wants to stop.
She wants to,
but he keeps bringing the stuff home.
She had good teeth, clean, and wasn't ugly. (A mouth
that wasn't for kissing, but for biting, chewing;
its primal use.) Just the deprived
heroin-weathered look. Tough but battling
to climb out of her...
With a third world figure; drink struggling her flat veins
as she stood in my living-room, bored probably.
I couldn't tell if she was fresh, or just dragged the winter in.
We were both a kind of lonely. Told me how she wants to stop.
She wants to,
but he keeps bringing the stuff home.
She had good teeth, clean, and wasn't ugly. (A mouth
that wasn't for kissing, but for biting, chewing;
its primal use.) Just the deprived
heroin-weathered look. Tough but battling
to climb out of her...
788 reads
4 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by MrAlptraum (Mr A)
