[x]

A Legacy of WisdomYou have scribed your words,
wealthy wreaths of wisdom,
on paper never torn or worn.
You have etched your passions
on my brow.

You have left this wallowed world
victorious; eyes resplendent
with the wisdom you wrote and wrought.
Your passions shall echo in my ears
unto eternity.

And should I stray into some
sullen storm, or get caught in
the torrents of the monsoon, I’ll know
that Lear’s been there before, and
I’ll not swoon.

And if Hades’ doors open up
before my stranded soul, and scorch
it with the heat of hell, I’ll recall that
I am not the first – Dante’s been down
there as well.

A

NonexistenceI pray to a God I have never seen,
who lives in a world that has never been,
to save my heart that has never felt,
from eternity's failures, eternity's guilt.

My feet step on grounds no men stepped before,
my lips taste the poison, bitter and sore,
yet it does not kill me,
does that mean,
that I am immortal,
or that I've never been?

I pray to a God that may not exist,
while the iron shackle tears up my wrist,
to tell me the difference of being and not,
to show me the memories that I forgot.

My mind flies to places nobody has reached,
to learn that the stars are nothing but bleached,
spots on the dark, they're not even light,

AnarchyScream the anthem of the anarchist!
What is it? Exactly.
I won't tell you; make it up.
Go away. Blow it up.
Burn it down. Deface the town.
But don't give in,
Never -- no.
That's the song we all love so.
Freedom past extremity.
Far away, in my backyard
I own the world; I am a bard.
I wear a beard and shave my head;
All the normals want me dead.
I won't give up; I ramble rave.
You'll never make me behave.
My brother, loser, freak, meek geek
You know-- the beatnick, hippy, punk--
The rock bands my parents debunk--
We treasure what we cannot have:
No allegiance to any flag.

out of Gardenwhat sea
how it is welling your eyes a wet mess

what tide
where urchins of the ocean will spill to howl their elegy
where mermaids will turn widows
once brine has swallowed whole their sailor babes

stewarding the land instead
is why i never set sail with you

but to lay in gardens, oh…

a bed sheet rotten by the ultraviolet
and our laps full of stars

what black soil will pervert your knees there
where moonlight will mirror out from your teeth
to run fanatic toward cosmic space
after bathing in the space among us

where walking air pushes every dust

one of sun-dried butterflies
one of beaten rug with broom
one of hone

Perspectives of a Hallucino...Comfort. The softness of the basement couch. Misery loves company.
Trickling through my fingers. Whispering across my face, her disappearing
lips trace across my cheeks. The smell is sweet, but she is rough against
my throat. Her smell isn't so much intoxicating as it is suffocating, yet
the smoke paralyses my senses and touches my soul. Her street name is
undeserving of her effect on me. Forever, she shall be known to me as
Mary-Jane. I will never know her beauty.

r

the plasticized quantum theory

alabaster immortality
une voleur honteux
slip of the tongue
in each saturated pore
spectrum rehearses its symphony

crooked whispers of a flute
a glimpse of blue infinitude
quiets the confines of los alamos
¿quién es él? eso piensa
en kaleidoscopes

paralysis in the peristalsis
jewel in the vitreous humor
phosphorescent anti-matter
until it watercolors
the poison of psyche

papillae the plagues
oxidizing ash and ember
a quivering effigy
splinters the moon
instinctually

the mirrored hand exhales
swept the epileptic ceiling
dissolving tendrils of mahogany
detached from the retina
unblemished

tranquil, t

GodThere is a God. I have seen him snap the necks
Of children and inspect their hollow remains.
Pushing past the sinews, there is nothing there.
No prayers clogging the arteries, stopping the rush
Of blood, a blackened jet.
Their mouths had not yet learnt how to
Form 'hail mary's'. Tongues twisted at the sound.
The syllables choke.

There is no use lying to a child who when asking
For God, finds only silence.

He is not interested in them. The purity sickens.
There's a boredom in innocence that causes him
To turn away. His eyes are better fixed on those
Who can praise him. The shallow whore who never
Thought her life would take thi

existentialist pick ups...where have I been all my life?

ScrutinyAnd when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin…
~ T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

I am going through the keyless gate
to watch and wait,
to wander here and there among the proud,
among the white and old whose wisdom rots, repressed, untold:
the soporific royals wreathed in leaves of gold.
And to them I shall read aloud from the Book,
read of the sins their lips have took
and upon me they shall look and patiently reflect…

“I am lost in my own depth,” I will say
in a slight, impartial way
(for I lack violets and an antic prin

Vampires heartacheI awake in the night;
I can no longer sleep.
I don't see myself in mirrors;
I see somebody else.
I am alone.
I am dead.
The red stripes on white flesh
Keep me somewhat Sane.
I stare at the ceiling;
It is as cold and dead as I am.
The pain burns within;
as my life slowly fades away.

Wolf's Rain

Snowflakes fall, blood is in the air,
Covering white figure of pride,
Lying forceless on the ground,
Having no strength to fight with the snow,
Nor even with reality,
Which drifts down from the empty sky,
Where the moon cannot be seen,
Where birds cannot be heard,
At which wolves can only howl.

Suicide

I'm so sick of suicide
It's everywhere I look
Pictures, and in movies
In poetry and books

I'm so sick of suicide
It's pathetic and it's weak
Blah blah blah so awful
Outlook always bleak

This life's just not worth living
Could they be any more cliché'?
I know that I just can't go on
Isn't that what they say?

Do you live in China
Without freedom's basic choice?
Are you a woman in Afghanistan?
Forbidden to have a voice.

Are you starving now in Africa?
Surrounded by disease
Or under corrupt dictatorship
Forced upon your knees

These people rise to challenges
We cannot comprehend
They live their lives from day to day
And triu

Procremationso he said let's make a baby
she said let's just make
love
and he said
What's the difference?
She said
A snakeskin
or a little pink pill
And he said
Isn't it about time... she said
You're never old enough
to die
She said Make life-- make
death
and he said
What's the difference?

I like my life she said
he said that won't last
she said I feel
no need...
he said
Well, maybe I do

She said Sow your seeds somewhere else then

the god memorandum

To: You
From: God

Take counsel.
I hear your cry.
It passes through the darkness, filters through the clouds, mingles with starlight, and finds its way to my heart on the path of a sunbeam.
I have anguished over the cry of a hare choked in the noose of a snare, a sparrow tumbled from the nest of its mother, a child thrashing helplessly in a pond, and a son shredding his blood on a cross.
Know that I hear you, also. Be at peace. Be calm.
I bring thee relief for your sorrow for I know its cause ... and its cure.
You weep for all your childhood dreams that have vanished with the years.
You weep for all your self-esteem that has been corr

DyingEach day,
I lose a
little more
of myself.

By the time
death comes,
I’ll already
be gone.

Browse More Like This

Download File
HTML, 261 bytes more ▶

More from `danielzklein

My Father 1When he was 30
my father had built and torn down
and rebuilt again a shed
with his own hands;
had planned a future for himself and his wife
and the two children he knew he'd have.

My father had serious hobbies.
I remember the oscilloscopes and the smell
of ammonia.

He would come home from work and pore over
financial documents, figure out how to keep us
safe and secure and comfortable.

Because that is what grown-ups do.

And he'd worry and frown and talk seriously
to serious men.

It was clear to me then that there was a line
between child and man, and that I was
on this side and he on the other.

That was fine. The line would

2nd person fiction and YouYou like fiction written in the second person. You may not admit it to yourself, but deep down, you really do. It teases you with its confrontational otherness, its flamboyantly displayed post-modernism, its teeth.

Do not look at its teeth. You do not want to look at its teeth.

Fiction written in the second person and you have a long history of denial. At first, you were sure it couldn't be done. Then it was done, and it was done to you, and you liked it, too, but it was only the one time and you were kind of drunk. It was an experiment, and it was interesting as an experiment, but that was all it was.

Only, of course, it wasn't.

Fiction

Fuck you, grapefruitFuck you, grapefruit. Fuck you right in your sickly dark-red ass.

Grapefruits are the Nigerian spam of the world of fruit. Yay, I just got $20,000,000 off this Nigerian prince on the internet. Wait, why is my bank account empty? Yay, oranges! Wait, grapefruit.

In every way that oranges are awesome, grapefruits are awful. Just look at them! Oranges are joyful, bright, full of life--they're orange! Grapefruits are the sickly pale hue of a nerd that sits in front of his PC 20 hours a day grinding quests in World of Warcraft. "That's not all I do," Grapefruits insist in their whiny high-pitched voices. "I have other interests! For instance, let

The ShamblerThe following letter was found in the quarters of the High Inquisitor after he had taken his life.

Your Highness,

We arrived at first light. The courthouse lay in ruins, as was reported. The locals assured us they had not entered the ruins since the fire, and judging from the distance they are keeping from the smoking piles of rubble even now we are inclined to believe them. They warned us that some evil entity resided inside still.

Our scouts found no signs of life, evil or otherwise, at all. We are still identifying the corpses we found within. Some are entirely incinerated, others have barely been touched by the flames. All of them are

Bluegrass and BirdsongBluegrass and Birdsong
For Maria, who dared me

The city has sirens
and strangers who puke

Out in the country
The faces are friendly
That eye-bulge and heave

The city has sinners
You watch from a distance
Who are careless, unwholesome
Or misunderstood

And you want to run with them
And see where they take you
But it's late and there's work
And you better go home.

Out in the country
The night-air is colder
The silences longer
And nowhere is nearer

And upon returning you think to yourself
What a fool that I was to ever have left
The silence, the faces, the foresty places
And the memories of youthful thoughts

But the hours w

View Gallery

Featured in Groups:

Not currently featured in any groups.

Details

Submitted: October 16, 2004
File Size: 261 bytes

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 51
Favourites: 4 [who?]
Views: 1,116 (0 today)
Downloads: 123 (0 today)

[x]

Something with tits in it

by `danielzklein, Oct 16, 2004, 9:05:37 AM
Literature / Poetry / Philosophical / Open

Soporific, sublunary lassitude
Peregrination--pusillanimous metempsychosis
Pilfering roe, abed
Pinions, sprockets, fabulous vise
Boobs.

Something with tits in itby `danielzklein

Literature / Poetry / Philosophical / Open

...

(this is dedicated to *tearstone for more than one reason) (no, it's not two reasons; but that was a good pun, yes, have a cookie.)

The Artist has requested Critique on this Artwork

Please sign up or login to post a critique.

~sisterjanet Dec 4, 2005

I actually knew a lot of these words already! and I recognised the ones I didn't know yet!

In the future, to add to the challenge of making coherent vocabulary poetry, you might want to work on getting the sentences to sound more like real sentences, or, for extra challenge, to sound more like poetry sentences.

~sankatze Jun 16, 2005

I know exactly four words of it, and I have a 300 TOEFL score.
And I'm fucking NOT going to tu.dict.chemnitz for this one.

`danielzklein Jun 16, 2005 Hobbyist Writer

Use [link] like all the good kids (munich >> chemnitz)

~sankatze Jun 16, 2005

Hat Leo auch 'n Firefox-Search-Plugin? Hmmmmm.... SMS-Abfrage. Fancy. Werd's gleich mal abchecken und vielleicht - gaaanz vielleicht - dieses Unding an Gedicht versuchen zu dechiffrieren. Wo wir grad dabei sind, gibt's ein Online-Dictionary mit Audio-Feature?

Wollte mir schon fast die CD-Rom Edition vom Webster bestellen, aber amazon.com liefert anscheinend keine Software nach Old Europe. Jerks.

`danielzklein Jun 16, 2005 Hobbyist Writer

Alles was ne input box hat kannst du firefox hotwiren; und zwar: rechtsklick, add a keyword for this search. Ich benutz "leo" fuer leo; duh!

Also geh ich einfach in die Location Bar (ctrl+l) und schreib "leo platzhirsch" und schon weiss ich immer noch nicht wie ich das auf Englisch sage.

[link] hat sehr oft audio dabei. [link] auch. Das waere dann das Webster; Merriam-Webster that is.

Ich hab mit dem Gedanken gespielt mir OED online zu abonnieren. Aber Scheisse, so viele Nieren wie die dafür wollen hat kein Mensch.

~sankatze Jun 16, 2005

Danke für den Hinweis! Anscheinend haben sie sich sogar schon mit Google verbündet, was "Platzhirsch de-en" sogar von der Google-Box zu einem nutzlosen Ergebnis liefern sollte.... nur bei mir nicht. Egal. Deine Version ist eh viel besser.

Ich denke, die Online-Version vom Webster tut's für mich im Moment... genau, was mir gefehlt hat! Hätte nicht gedacht, dass der Audio Stuff bei denen umsonst ist.

Did you ever know that you're my heeeeroooo...

~sanatae Apr 20, 2005

was there any intention to the selection of tongue-twisty big words? Or just liked the way they sounded together?

To me, it seems to be a joke-type thing. So much intelligent thought process, big words, add a little mechanics and it's still intelligent, but no matter how smart, how knowledgeable, how many big words you know and can use successfully, Boobs are still Boobs.

that a decent enough analysis for ya? ^_^

`danielzklein Apr 20, 2005 Hobbyist Writer

This is "vocabulary poetry", a category =IfrozenspiritI and I have invented. The predominance of expensive words is exactly the point.

And yes it's joke; I like poking the poets.

~sanatae Apr 20, 2005

it's fun. ^_^

~blindsuperhero Apr 15, 2005

vise : To examine and indorse, as a passport; to visa
which is a verb in any case. Did you perchance mean "vice"? (I think vise might be an american variation though)

In this I knew all words except "metempsychosis" and "vise" (in the sense defined above, that is. I know what "vice" means). Again this poem doesn't actually make any sense.

Pusillanimous is my favourite word.

More from `danielzklein

Featured in Groups:

Details

Statistics

Something with tits in it

Something with tits in itby `danielzklein

The Artist has requested Critique on this Artwork

The Journal Portal

Polls

What is your preferred drawing software?

deviantART [dee·vee·un'nt·ART]

Keep in Touch!

Deviousness

Add Media

Style