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1,119 Posts
(I promise I will write real poems soon)

Ode to my cable modem, which gleams and twinkles at me,

from the corner near the phone behind the birdcage.

What technological goodness you feed into my brain!

Such swiftness with which you do so!

If only I could have asked the nice man to hook it directly

into my viens...oh what a world it would be!

1,119 Posts
Joe is a man

Joe's got a van (maybe)

Joe doesn't like how I spell.

Joe thinks I'm silly

(but I'm not really)

Hey, JOE! I also can't rhyme!

1,119 Posts
Sunset Cliffs

I am so content here.

I find so many answers with you at my side,

here at the cliffs,

where perhaps destiny lies

in the sound of the crashing surf,

as it sculpts the rock with abandon,

not even meaning to.

Where the waves shape what we will see

and always have

always will.

Perhaps destiny lies in a flashing smile,

quick and teasing,

and savagely alive.

Perhaps it lies more accurately in timing,

although I am hard pressed to forfeit

my faith in the unexplained.

I have a great desire to impress,

I realise as I return your smile,

for you are very impressive.

I can feel my blood moving distinctly,

and I wonder what it aspires to do.

Does it know what great goal it is moving towards?

What wonderful thing it is so compelled to discover?'s a lot like me.

1,119 Posts
I have never yet met someone,

so apt at self destruction.

It really takes some gumption,

but at least his friends are cool.

1,119 Posts
Some people have a fetish for death

like Gord Downie and his wherewithal.

He drives down corduroy roads,

and always leaves a lasting impression.

I like to write things that give cause enough to be silent,

and reflect upon whats been said.

I hope it is eloquent yet forceful

and strong enough to escape the narrow route thats been carved for it.

Some people like to write about things,

like Regan and her marmalade skies,

and her happy Saturdays and grilled cheese sandwiches.

I prefer to paint a picture of the insanities,

through the eyes of the detached.

Its like playing card tricks with the devil

and laughing hysterically when you reveal to him

that you knew what his cards were, all along.

And sometimes I make things real,

so close that you could swear you feel it

brushing past you in a crowd.

There? Did you catch it? The gnarled fingers

gripping your shoulder for a moment amidst the bustle

strong and firm, and every bit alive,

warming the skin beneath your shirt

then passing on with a smile

before you can turn your head.

That is where I reside, with Cordelia

looking out into the Prairie Sunset,

watching the wheat ripple in the breeze,

still golden beneath the dusk,

that's where I know I can laugh with the devil,

dance with the faeries,

and never once care if I am leaving

a lasting impression.

1,119 Posts
Another day, another dollar

that's how I try to think of it anyway.

You have to I guess

otherwise you go crazy,

kindof like me

Whata they call it?

Stir crazy?

yeah, I guess that's what I mean.

Sick of the stillness

and the darkness,

of the situation I mean.

I'm sick of wishing I could just run out into the sun,

like other people do.

People, I understand people, it's my job, I have to.

I have to know everything thats spinning around in their heads,

all the time, especially when...

That's what made me crazy I guess-

knowing what they're thinking,

when the crack sends them reeling into darkness.

You know, it all depends on how you see it.

Some guys just do it, and that's it -it's over.

But I think of it like this:

you're born, right? and then someone kills you.

Well, in the same way that you can't remember anything

from before you were born,

then so can you not remember anything when you're dead, right?

So really, if you never knew you were alive,

then you were never really there,

and you're not missing anything-

and then it doesn't matter that much after all, does it?

So when I kill someone,

I'm not doing anything to them, really.

I'm just depopulating earth, a little.

Well anyway, now you know what makes me tick,

or at least what keeps the gears in the clock turning,

even after they've been clogged and choked with blood.

Really though,

it's not the guts that can jam the clock works,

it's the thoughts, that are ticking away

inside the heads of people

who suddenly find themselves

pinned down to a mounting board, like a butterfly

at my mercy,

knowing they will be exhibited-

an example

until either the clock stops ticking,

or everyone forgets

that they were ever there.

Tick tock.
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