Wild Poets - Journals

Radius

Alael Rose — Sat, 04 Jul 2009 17:45:00 +0000

Venus in pearls, and only pearls
limpid, swirling nimbus,
full moon summer day
possessed of fantasies calculations.

Take me, for instance, now
languid, savoring fruit
wanting
wind and water to turn these wheels,
you ain't never seen fireworks.

Now you've done it,
you do it all the time
you're brimming with my favorite cowboy nonsense
adored beyond telling.

1

Alael Rose — Fri, 03 Jul 2009 06:08:00 +0000

We don't talk anymore. Some people like the varnish dissolved

cut to the quick, ruthless clean.

I left unfinished business,

whole segments of garden, weeding

in favor of sharper edges, straight lines,

worlds of fragment.

After the undoing, he was

groping for simple and knowable.

I love you, that's all.

Nothing to add or leave or lose.

Was that what he meant?

He's gone into traveling sales

I've outgrown the crush on chaos.

Live.

I knew you deserved more, even then,

offering all I had.

Main Street North

Alael Rose — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 05:43:00 +0000

After dark, it lives.

The ones like me know the longing for the road,
oil slicked rainbow sanctuary.
Strip malls, night clubs, strip clubs night malls,
occasional dowager, all pent up, fucked up passions
worth a nickel but taking the rent.

They tore down the bars where the girls worked,
took hours to clean up the needles,
forge legends of melted release,
gambling on Big Happy,
spun gold from nicotine stains.
Bookstores, $8 coffee shops now,
interns with the same haughty, helpless horny.

Man, you don't even wanna go past 45th,
all dirt, not even under the rugs
like normal people.
Discarded lovers, open ends all over, abandoned symmetry,
what do they do all day?
Used feelings litter the ground,
no respect for the community,
it's nicer when you pretend to feel bad.

There's the building I lived in till that night,
he showed up late for dinner, with cheap flowers
and by cheap, I mean frivolous,
like I'd be so easy.
Regarding easy,
what would your mom say about a woman like me?
Laughing too loud
get'n sanctified with the door open
in broad daylight?

You paused, I see a long friendship ahead...

It's a quiet street, we never lock our doors,
with the real danger inside.
Keep eye contact, and never mind your own business
cross your heart for that shadow rounding the corner
another player for keeps,
at the end of the line.

A Citizen Returns - An Introduction and Complimentary Analysis

Charles Foster Kane — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 06:28:00 +0000

After a long absence from the media world, I've selected this "website" (in particular, your Bukowski Stew, where comments on this work will go) as venue to allow you to access my writings. I'm sure you'll find them not only enlightening, but erudite and enjoyable as well.

While I have little respect for pock-marked drunks, and even less for stew, given the rather calamitous effect my return would have upon the press of this country, I believe that the Stew will be a suitable venue for me to grace you with my insight. After all, it's well known that pseudonyms of dubious character frequent this place, and I feel that I can "hide in plain sight" among the conversations of fictional characters.

After all, due to a rather strange turn of events, it seems that most people these days are convinced that I'm a fictional character.

Given my long coma, I've yet to truly master the technological and culture changes that have played out in my absence, so I'm unclear as to whether to present my plans as science fiction, philosophy, or historical analysis. It seems that the typewriter has significantly evolved, although strangely, the newspaper business has not.

Is it any wonder that upon my resuscitation, I immediately turned to examining the current media business environment? In fact, that's what led me here. After all, a good businessman knows how to bend the rules of the game, but the brilliant one writes his own. And, despite the rather slash-dash nature of this place, the democratic focus fascinated me - more because it seems to be an attempt to rewrite the rules of publishing than because of my interest in social justice.

After all, it's been a very long time since I put any faith in democracy. After the public thievery of my election and the horrible, baseless scandal that wrecked my reputation, I had very little use for the common folk. It was clear to me at that time that the mass of humanity was not fit to govern itself, and it was their fortune to have capable individuals, such as myself, with the money, intelligence, and property to defend their interests and maintain the economic systems that kept them fed.

But I suppose some part of me harked back to my early days as a young newspaper publisher. What I would have given back then to have the tools you wild young tattooed things do now! Those were heady days, when we still believed in the power of the written word not just to tell people what to do, but to teach them how to live better.

Of course, the temptation to tell people what to do is a strong one... one that everyone has succumbed to from time to time. I'm looking forward to watching how this community handles the enticements of power and propaganda, particularly given the supposedly "democratic" nature of the site.

The other curiosity I have about this place is how the economics will work. Given what I've seen, while the revenue streams seem solid, the only way to significantly expand is if this individual members consciously decide to publicise and promote each others' work. While it seems as though your Publisher has put great faith in this dynamic, I've less faith in the human character. When push comes to shove, people will only do what benefits them directly.

So your Publisher has a hard sell here... he's got to convince you to support each other. He's got to show how your critique on John's work will make John's work better, and sell better, which brings in the funds for Wild Poets to publish your work. Sadly, this type of beneficial interdependence seems foreign in today's culture (an unavoidable side-effect of the benefits of capitalism). Could it be that your Publisher is even more anachronistic than I?

While I think that it's unlikely that this system will work given what I know about human nature (and the fact that I'm never wrong), it seems that even if it spectacularly fails, it will provide a fascinating dysfunctional monument to human creativity.

And to be quite honest, despite the marked unprofessional nature of this place, I actually hope that I am wrong. Mark that - it's the last time I'll ever say it or write it. You see, I think of how much Susan would have loved this place, how much good it would have done her - maybe even done for her what I couldn't - and I simply can't hope for your failure.

~Kane

{mos_fb_discuss:28}

Bleeds Purple

Alael Rose — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 04:14:00 +0000

If you could just get going, like the assured click, the stiletto snap.

A breath before the wrong word turns to blush:

I used to live next to a river, we'd lie down side by side. And listen to passing trains, and dream of growing.

When the season passed, the tightening inside, and the cold drove me north,

to freeze honestly.

I thought it best he stay and feed the willows.

So now I understand my neighbor.

Married 17 years, and facing an illness

that squeezed her hand as she boarded a plane, and flew away, free of the corn.

Now absolved of sense or wrongdoing

she makes it slow work, breaks him again and again.

What heroes?

All I need love to be is 10 ft. tall, clutching me to him like a feather,

whispering, “I can do anything now.”

I'll never send you away again

it's back to saving these living days

in a single bound.

Nothing floors me like separation,

like my bug eyed, raptured horror at scat videos-

people do that to each other?

and rip off each other's stereos,

steal each others lovers

throw each other on the street.

Each other, simply another...

wishing pennies in the little ocean,

our kind of love makes everything small.

The possibilities you breathe, so solid.

The lessons in your name

about taking what's offered, before it's offering what's left

and you're onto the slow, steady depth I always need;

utterances made, stayed unbroken

the promise in my hips, sons, gangly and thunder-like,

daughters to reflect your quiet light,

my vow to be a refuge, sealed with aquamarine.

but we southern ladies know digression

Hard to find girls who speak Flower, you know, like

bedside morning glories in crystal, violet sherbet veranda sunsets,

kitchen poppies

A ripple through our tear shaped body,

snapdragon perfume.

flaming azalea tiptoe waterdancing...

I leaned into you

hoping you liked 'em nervous and disheveled

you burrowed, then froze, a new cardial splinter

you my dear, drew blood from a stone

your hug left me bracing, like snowflakes on my skin

I knew you instantly.

Her Candy Striped Lips

David Wright — Sun, 28 Jun 2009 19:19:00 +0000

I wanted something to eat.

So, I ate the bottom up under the Arkansas,

The river of the afterlife, starlit, sole night-shot pink and blue

Expositions.

A damned, dirty, misspoken sense of self lying all over and over again.

Pause. Here, for a moment, Please :

Wait.

Let me explain, if you would.

It’s in my best interest to say it straight : how it’s better to dance at something

< Nothing.

The bloody vassals feeding Gadflies to the horses’ mouths.

Re-groupings at Zone Fear, black birded caws, more interesting,

Bigger, better, super

Bright sickle cells.

Oh God, I’m so paranoid.

Oh God, this is all wrong.

Og Hood, I’m regressing to sleep.

It’s my dingy, hyena torn shoulder,

Bastards Lost In Space Crying :

More Fear for Heaven Keys ! !

I am hungry and fully fed against any, and all, each possible disease.

All of creation laughing at me, spontaneous, forcefully feeding beached food :

Hot Tamale : Chicken Wing : Corn Dog : Whole Wine Casks : The Evening News :

Extinction plausibility. . .

No Salt or Water.

No Fire or Wood.

No Cold Moss to suck.

No, Nothing, None.

I wanted, I did, I wanted every Vampiric [sic] living-thing For Free,

That way my grandiose, not dead-heart, could kill more dominant,

Diversionary evils :

The Broken Key Stuck in the Clock.

Never Cry Whale

thug rigby — Sun, 28 Jun 2009 17:25:00 +0000

Holy crap! The international chair of the Sea Shepherd Conservation Society is FARLEY MOWAT

author of Never Cry Wolf

http://www.seashepherd.org/who-we-are/board-of-directors.html

crafty, crafty whale huggers

I love you

The Monster Under the Bed

N. Gee — Sat, 27 Jun 2009 12:11:00 +0000

    I was babysitting my little sister, a chore which I was relegated to once every other weekend or so, and one for which I was paid and therefore did not complain too much about. My sister was 5 then, and was super-humanely muscular and strong for her age, and had just learned the “This is the Song that Never Ends” song from Lambchop. Despite these quirks, she was cute - though I would never admit it unless, perhaps, you put some sort of gun to my head and demand to know the truth.
   I was, myself, around 10-years-old and perhaps a bit young to be babysitting, but I was relatively mature for my age and my parents were only out for a little while. Confused by a Campbell’s label, I had just fed my sister what I thought to be a cheese soup for dinner, but what was actually cheese dip for nachos. She complained a little, but I told her to eat her soup and drink her milk, because that’s what parents tell their children on the television. I can only imagine how gassy she must have been. Apparently, there is no such thing as “cheese soup”.
   My sister then began to rebel, in her usual stompy way. She wanted to watch a Teletubbies video for the fifth time that day and I’d had quite enough of those waddling midget retards to last me a lifetime. We had, in this house, a rather inexplicable button next to one of the light switches. The button was red, and large, and inlaid in metal. Above it, it said “EMERGENCY” in big letters. It was a leftover from the previous resident, who had owned a junkyard and who was quite mad. I pointed to the button.

went to the bar

thug rigby — Sat, 27 Jun 2009 06:34:00 +0000

it was stupid

another stupid fight

my back turned to the guy

who throws a fit

smashes his shot glass against the table sending glass all over, cutting everyone

I was talking to the pockmarked guy

I bought his drink

said he'd get the next round

he didn't

and so

on it goes

sometimes I wish I held some sort of appeal to those unitan unipiece girls

I think they've all been wearing the same dress for the last ten years

black

yippie

woop woop

I'm unique!

yay I'm a writer

bottle of sake and a laptop

typing drunk and SHIRTLESS

ooo

I guess

I was meant

to be really good at gardening

contours

cynical illustration

ooo look what I can do freehand in seconds

asshole

you get the girl(s)

I get

the long walk home

and the sense of superiority

because I know that if it wasn't so loud

you'd hear me talkin

and if you can hear me um

I'm like

pimp n shit

this is

I guess

the cost

of being whatever the fuck I am

whatever that is

I hope

at some point

I get to stop paying

maybe reap some sort of benefit

$20 dolla gift certificate to bed bath and beyond

private island

private jet

pina coladas

stock options

my own

private

personal

baby

wallabe

& petting zoo

& a nice, professionally done fake tan

some nice fake chest hair

a nice fat watch

so we can freak

on the dancefloor

watching CSPAN BookTV

philosophy

literature

art

writing

neuroscience

have done absolutely shit

in getting me laid

I'm dEEp

thug rigby — Sat, 27 Jun 2009 04:43:00 +0000

deep like

a pond

or concrete blonde

or a hydrogen bond

or a big

throbbing Mickey-Gandalf Wizard's

magic wand

unh