Poetry

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Baley
Posts: 591
Joined: Sat May 07, 2005 2:54 pm

Poetry

Post by Baley » Sat Jul 08, 2006 12:30 am

There's honour in numbers they say
And I realise this makes no sense
And trust me I'd like it to make sense
I really would
Each morning when I take a piss
And look in the mirror
And see the same old mug
Smiling at the same old schumuck
In the same old clothes
I'd like it to make sense
So I could take my piss
- In peace -
And walk away.



I met a man named Anderson
Who talks on street corners bout God and Salvation
With such honesty you're forced to believe
Just for a second.



You're drawing circles
And you know it
Yet you keep on doing it
Again and Again
Circle after Circle
Blue, Red, Yellow
Chalk wasted on the pavement
Breath in|Breath out
You're still doing it
After all these wasted years
On wasted pavements
You're still doing it
Knowing it
Loving it
I'm sorry.




"You know, you're right" I told my teacher yesterday
She's about 40, fat, sluggish
Had a little too much whiskey or little too much beer, God, I dunno
She's aging badly and she knows it
There's nothing worse on this earth than aging badly and knowing it
I felt sorry for her as I talked and talked
And she felt a little sorry for me, I think,
That I was wasting my time talking to this fat old crow
When there are thousands of young nimble birds
Just waiting to be shot.




There are tears and there are bums and there's Jesus
Look at Jesus boozing up the heavens
And then there's me, and God am I pissed, bored and shocked
That Jesus is just boozing up the heavens
And I bet you're wondering what it all means
Or maybe you're just pissed at me for being so bloody cryptic
Well, I can't tell you what It means, because frankly I've got not idea
Nor can I tell you anything about anything worthwhile
Because frankly,
I just don't know.



There once was this poet who lived his entire life in one tiny room
Which, like all tiny rooms, was rather small
He didn't mind it though
He said it was cute and just stopped giving a damn
There was this phone in his room that never rang
And a computer in his room he never plugged in
And books, piles of books, he never read
He just sat there, smiling at the ceiling with his eyes closed
On an old bed he inherited from his aunt so many years ago
Keeping a beat with his left foot to a music piece he recorded
Years ago, when he was young and could still talk to me
Using words, signs and winks.
I should have visited him more often
And talked to him even when he said no and started yelling at me
Fighting me with his tiny white hands
I should have forced him out of his tiny room
And into the pub nearby
Where everyone was happy
And jolly.
I should have bought him a cheap hooker or a drawing pad or something, God,
I should have sang for him, like his mother used to when we were both young.
I guess what I'm trying to say is,
I should have been there.




On the telly, 3 AM, some big boobed host giving sex advise
To bums so out of her league it's funny
And I find myself here staring at this magnificent specimen
Of plastic surgery and overall fakeness
As she keeps on advising late-night virgins
For fat bucks on National TV.




There were 24 Virgin Girls in my grandmother's village
I know this because I stayed up one night
Counting them as they walked past my window
You can tell, I guess, by the way they walk
There's something in their walk
And I tried proving it
But teen girls are hard to talk to
When you're only 8.



Opinions? Please.

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Gorth
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Joined: Mon May 03, 2004 9:39 am
Location: Australia

Re: Poetry

Post by Gorth » Sun Jul 09, 2006 4:53 am

That's quite mixed bunch you've got there :)

I'll comment on those I have something to say about seperately if you don't mind.
Baley wrote:There's honour in numbers they say
And I realise this makes no sense
And trust me I'd like it to make sense
I really would
Each morning when I take a piss
And look in the mirror
And see the same old mug
Smiling at the same old schumuck
In the same old clothes
I'd like it to make sense
So I could take my piss
- In peace -
And walk away.

Sounds like an angry young man feeling trapped in a dreary old daily routine with little prospects to me... I guess we all have that feeling of trying to make sense out of things beyond our control sometimes.

Baley wrote:I met a man named Anderson
Who talks on street corners bout God and Salvation
With such honesty you're forced to believe
Just for a second.

Do you want to believe in something ?

I think most people need to believe in something. Doesn't have to be the same thing, that your neighbour believes in. Some people have enough believing in themselves. Sometimes the need changes as you grow older.

Baley wrote:You're drawing circles
And you know it
Yet you keep on doing it
Again and Again
Circle after Circle
Blue, Red, Yellow
Chalk wasted on the pavement
Breath in|Breath out
You're still doing it
After all these wasted years
On wasted pavements
You're still doing it
Knowing it
Loving it
I'm sorry.

See above comments about feeling trapped. Sometmes you can break out of the trap yourself, sometimes you need luck, sometimes outside intervention. Perhaps, thats why some people have that deep seated need to believe in some masterplan.

Baley wrote:"You know, you're right" I told my teacher yesterday
She's about 40, fat, sluggish
Had a little too much whiskey or little too much beer, God, I dunno
She's aging badly and she knows it
There's nothing worse on this earth than aging badly and knowing it
I felt sorry for her as I talked and talked
And she felt a little sorry for me, I think,
That I was wasting my time talking to this fat old crow
When there are thousands of young nimble birds
Just waiting to be shot.

Reminds me of a previous piece you wrote a while ago... while it was very hot in Romania. your reply was something to the effect "Always about the girl" (I assume the young nimble bird ones, not your 40 year old teacher). Josan is the one to talk about on the subject of broken hearts.

Baley wrote:There are tears and there are bums and there's Jesus
Look at Jesus boozing up the heavens
And then there's me, and God am I pissed, bored and shocked
That Jesus is just boozing up the heavens
And I bet you're wondering what it all means
Or maybe you're just pissed at me for being so bloody cryptic
Well, I can't tell you what It means, because frankly I've got not idea
Nor can I tell you anything about anything worthwhile
Because frankly,
I just don't know.

Thats a nice benefit of having the different pieces posted together here. There does seem to be a common theme to the ones I've read so far.

Baley wrote: There once was this poet who lived his entire life in one tiny room
Which, like all tiny rooms, was rather small
He didn't mind it though
He said it was cute and just stopped giving a damn
There was this phone in his room that never rang
And a computer in his room he never plugged in
And books, piles of books, he never read
He just sat there, smiling at the ceiling with his eyes closed
On an old bed he inherited from his aunt so many years ago
Keeping a beat with his left foot to a music piece he recorded
Years ago, when he was young and could still talk to me
Using words, signs and winks.
I should have visited him more often
And talked to him even when he said no and started yelling at me
Fighting me with his tiny white hands
I should have forced him out of his tiny room
And into the pub nearby
Where everyone was happy
And jolly.
I should have bought him a cheap hooker or a drawing pad or something, God,
I should have sang for him, like his mother used to when we were both young.
I guess what I'm trying to say is,
I should have been there.

Yourself ? Somebody you know/are related to ?

Or somebody you are fearing to be in 40 years ?

Baley wrote:On the telly, 3 AM, some big boobed host giving sex advise
To bums so out of her league it's funny
And I find myself here staring at this magnificent specimen
Of plastic surgery and overall fakeness
As she keeps on advising late-night virgins
For fat bucks on National TV.

You know, communism isn't really the worst thing in the world. Rampant capitalism without control is just as heartless. Consumerism kills the spirit just as well as Mao's "Cultural Revolution"

Baley wrote:There were 24 Virgin Girls in my grandmother's villiage
I know this because I stayed up one night
Counting them as they walked past my window
You can tell, I guess, by the way they walk
There's something in their walk
And I tried proving it
But teen girls are hard to talk to
When you're only 8.
:roll:
Baley wrote: Opinions? Please.
Well, I'm not really the verbose kind of poster, since I have this urge to get to the point, so I might not give the same kind of elaborate comments that a trained writer might give you.

Short version: I like your writing and hope you keep sharing it.

Medium version: More than anything, I think they give some insight into the brains of a frustrated, intelligent young man, who has a tendency to be way older than his birth certificate.

I don't know what life in Romania is like, but judging by your writing, it's an exercise in hopelessness and lack of opportunities for bright young men who wants more from life than what it currently offers. It may be part of beeing where you are or it may be part of being a teenager (I've almost forgotten what that's like), or it may be a combination of both. Being a teenager is cureable, it heals with time. As for being whereever you are, if that is the problem, only "Baley" can really do something about it.

Of course, if everything was candy sweet happiness, we would miss out on your razor sharp wit and grungy writing.

And that last part is pretty much how I think of your writing. Sharp, cutting through the crap and seeing the things in your world that affects your life and your thoughts.

Reading one piece alone might not give the full picture, but once you read more of them, you start seeing a person behind the writing and the pattern, that there is to it.

What ever else happens and whether you choose to share or not, I hope you keep up the writing, even if just for your own sake.
A dyslexic walks into a bra...

User avatar
Baley
Posts: 591
Joined: Sat May 07, 2005 2:54 pm

Re: Poetry

Post by Baley » Sun Jul 09, 2006 7:38 am

Gorth wrote:Sounds like an angry young man feeling trapped in a dreary old daily routine with little prospects to me... I guess we all have that feeling of trying to make sense out of things beyond our control sometimes.
Not really angry. Apart from that. Decent interpretation.
Gorth wrote:Do you want to believe in something ?
I believe in nozing!

I'm gonna drop the Lebowski Nihilist shtick for a second and explain. It's basically about the honesty of one's beliefs and how passionate they are about them, passionate enough to make you share them, even just for a second.
Gorth wrote:See above comments about feeling trapped. Sometmes you can break out of the trap yourself, sometimes you need luck, sometimes outside intervention. Perhaps, thats why some people have that deep seated need to believe in some masterplan.
This sort of relates to the Jesus poem. It's open to interpretation. And I don't have any answers really. It took me under a minute to write it. I'm not very certain what it's about, and it doesn't really matter in poetry, the reader's interpretation will almost always be subjective. I like yours.
Gorth wrote:Reminds me of a previous piece you wrote a while ago... while it was very hot in Romania. your reply was something to the effect "Always about the girl" (I assume the young nimble bird ones, not your 40 year old teacher). Josan is the one to talk about on the subject of broken hearts.
Oh, suppose I just wrote it so I could squeeze in that little bukkake metaphor there at the end.

Seriously though, it's about aging and self-esteem.
Gorth wrote:Yourself ? Somebody you know/are related to ?
It's not about me. Personal experiences aside, it serves as a warning. For what? You interpret it.
Gorth wrote:You know, communism isn't really the worst thing in the world. Rampant capitalism without control is just as heartless. Consumerism kills the spirit just as well as Mao's "Cultural Revolution"
I'd like to view myself as economically centrist. Did you take that as an attack on Communism or Capitalism? Because, honestly, it's just a late night observation.
Gorth wrote:
Baley wrote:There were 24 Virgin Girls in my grandmother's villiage
I know this because I stayed up one night
Counting them as they walked past my window
You can tell, I guess, by the way they walk
There's something in their walk
And I tried proving it
But teen girls are hard to talk to
When you're only 8.
:roll:
Hah. That's pretty much my favourite poem of the bunch.

And yes, I realise I misspelled village. I'll fix that.

Here are some more.


The love story between a cowboy and an old woman
Began like most stories do with a smile and a wink
In some forgotten hellhole where old mares are still valued
Despite their obvious drawbacks. Stiffness.
I've written love poems before.
And you need a good deal of alcohol, beer, wine, not important
It's a symbol and you need this symbol to you through
Because quite frankly,
Love is the most obnoxious feeling in the free world.
Ungrateful bitches and ungrateful dogs, blithering morons,
Prancing around in their spandex tights powered
By the holiness of love.




Standing free like the shadow before the storm
On the great Asian street vessels
Where dingos eat dingos and dogs screw dogs and realise
That not everything has to make sense
Even just for a second
Realise that sense
Is the most overrated quality
You're ever likely to find.





I've just had a glass of wine
And Sweet Jesus
There's nothing better at 7 am
Than a glass of wine straight from the fridge's mouth
And now, honestly,
I'm gonna be eating my pudding,
Like a good boy.




Mother Mary sang her song like all mothers do
And she was happy doing it
Until she was no more
And Father came to Mother Mary
Dressed in White
All white
And he said I don't know
God, Jesus, I don't know
That's what he said
I don't know
I think Father was a little bruised
As he kept missing the hole
The spot where all them bastards came
You could see him searching
And I dunno what came over me
But I took this frying pan, eggs still cooking,
I too this frying pan and I hit him over the head
Smiling.




There's this old pimp I know, I see his mug all the time
Doing videos and Ads on TV, chatting up young girls,
Playing with his toy car like it was something of a trophy
And we're all supposed to be so jealous
And yet proud of this Nation's Son
Who's made it big on TV and can now chill
With all them other big names at the big name party
He's a riot this pimp of hours, a national hero
Wasted like all other national heroes
On making us laugh.


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