shoot yourself in the
headstomach. shoot the terrible master.shoot your blood brother & your chosen sister
shoot out all the candles and shoot down the lights
shoot…
Shoot eleven elephants in the hours just before their death, and think about your grandfather, and how you didn’t know him very well.
shoot yourself in the
headstomach. shoot the terrible master.shoot your blood brother & your chosen sister
shoot out all the candles and shoot down the lights
shoot every single chess piece
shoot unsteady calves, and shoot while chewing
shoot bottles of bubblegum pink hairdye. shoot number two pencils as you shout about dying and clowns and everything else.
shoot yourself in the
headstomach. shoot the terrible master.shoot your blood brother & your chosen sister
shoot out all the candles and shoot down the lights
shoot open the curtains, deer stalking behind toyotas and skyscrapers smiling. shoot shoot shoot shit.
shoot from half-court out into open valley. shoot the dresses off the girls. shoot at all the wheelbarrows and then shoot up yourself again.
shoot moose and caribou until you can build a statue of yourself from their bodies. shoot that statue right in the face. shoot the andromeda galaxy until it is bleeding visibly.
shoot yourself in the
headstomach. shoot the terrible master.shoot your blood brother & your chosen sister
shoot out all the candles and shoot down the lights
shoot every single chess piece
I saw that Uut had reblogged this and it made for an interesting read. There are a couple ideas that I don’t really agree with in this piece (and some that I do.) Uut pointed out of course the assumption that the publishing world deserves a grip on “good” writing, but the part that I really take umbrage with is this:
Also, I would imagine that no professional writer would ever post all of their best work, for free, on the internet…
Firstly because with the exception of novelists (and who wants to read a full length novel on a blogging platform designed for exposure to a lot of content?) and possibly some essayists, it really isn’t feasible for someone to be a “professional” writer in any financial sense of the word. Most poets don’t make money off their poetry, and in my opinion a truly “noble” writer shouldn’t expect to. If you are a “professional” writer who doesn’t want to post your best work for free on the internet, maybe you should ask yourself why you’re writing. Isn’t the purpose of writing, after all, to be read by readers who can make emotional connections with it? If you’re writing (especially poetry) for money or for renown, well that just means you’re human. Those are fine things to strive for, but isn’t it the better move to let go of this sense of propriety and ego and share what you have written on a platform that allows a larger audience to enjoy and benefit from it? I believe in an ideal world, the idea of intellectual property would not exist anyways; everything would be in the public domain, and artists would still create anyways because that is what they love to do. I guess I’m a little frustrated with the capitalist ideal that the value of something is only based on the revenue it generates. I understand, of course, that this ideal is impractical and somewhat idealistic, but look at what the technology world is doing with open source content! Look at how the fashion world is thriving with its lack of enforceable copyright! (link) Maybe this is a silly and naive view coming from a teenager lacking in the experience to back up these claims, but I hope it at least makes you think a little.
Gregor Samsa Suffers a Nightmare
Catapulck, plickture, fixton. Say it aloud
and you’ll know the symptom of tongueless
and jaw snap, teeth of two knives run together:
I’ll mate ye, I’ll mate ye.
In this place the stick of the blade goes up
the green arse and nobody cares to lament,
says we’re built to play aches and amputations
and we open, we open,
o, we open good. Lick me up the back
if you want to know human. Look me in the
bulb if you want a neat grin. Let me slice
you an orange embryoand we can skitter the field like children.
I do remember human. I remember not-cape
back, not spindle, legs quite thick
and richer, rich.I remember leaving dents where we stepped
and the fluffish dogs our playthings, aimless
and brown pouf. Now the terror uses me up
and the shiverskits up the antennae. The feather me redder.
The hexagon lens like a patterned curse
repeating in multiple versions of world.
Gracks, cacckage, blick.Say it aloud and the insects will giggle and
screech. Say it where the tongue doesn’t reach
and I’ll talk you up nice and slow, concise
as a cricket, cricketlocked in a fit of existence. Let me strike
you a deal, big fellow, my unremembered
hellhorse. Do it for me: take that finger
and press on this thorax—yes.Press here.
Press hard.————————————————————————-
Miss Castalian’s entry for Iron Poet (opponent: Zaroz)
Now that round one is officially over, this was my favorite poem from the round. Just the way language is used is really excellent.
head
in my head
the wise henrequired
for me to peck
the earthas if I
only recently was
where I shouldn’t bescreeching…
with searchlights,
wiping the grime
instead of daisies—this late
low observance
that cuts a dream in halfunraveling
in the night-school textbookseed text: Early Selected Poems, by Charles Simic
art by Tony Hammond
I think this is the best instagram poem I’ve seen.
Sorry for the all the reblogs everybody. It’s just that those posts are super awesome and stuff. If it makes you feel any better, I’m going to start posting original stuff again soon. Calloo Callay!
HIEU NGUYEN - “It Was The Winter…”
“Nostalgia forgets to visit this street. It is too busy with tree houses and rope swings; it doesn’t have time for all this grey.”
Button Poetry’s own HIEU NGUYEN is a finalist in the 2013 Write Bloody Publishing Contest. Reblog (and like this video on youtube) to help Hieu win a publishing deal!
I love the way this guy emotes on some of these lines. Performance poetry is cool.
Iron Poet I has commenced!
For the participants, good luck!
To everyone else who’s tired of me talking about it, congratulations!
I’d prefer a forest fire twinkling
from 100,000 miles in space
to an anecdote ending in rabies shots
Astronomers hopped up on pills
have been hijacking police helicopters
at a dizzying rate such a confusing puzzle
are next century’s traffic plans
It’s almost 200 years later
and thousands of flies believe
themselves already dead
There’s no banger here
no bar the Jane is zoned
One coon shuffle is all’s left
Bones legal dust sprawl
thinged through the vote hole
filling her hottest compact
with stuffed spumoni
Fall at her little feet now
with a glass of odds and God
saying nothing aloud, aright?
The sky is a plowed field and a plate
of black caviar the size of snowballs
