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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in Bad Poetry Incorporated's LiveJournal:

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Friday, October 10th, 2008
6:20 pm
Hallowe'en Song
On All Hollows' Eve we’ll put on the masks
Of demons and devils and ghosts and we’ll dance
With the slain and the shame and the pain of our past
On All Hollows’ Eve we’ll go dancin’

We’ll dance with the spirits they used to revere
We’ll dance with the children who disappeared
We’ll dance with the kings who held them in fear
On All Hollows’ Eve we’ll go dancin’

I’ll remember the movements of years gone by
I’ll remember my beloved on the day that she died
When I looked in her eyes and knew that she lied
On All Hollows’ Eve she went dancin’

We’ll dance with the currents and waves, consumed
Like the tides are called to dance by the moon
Shake like the chill blown over a tomb
On All Hollows’ Eve we’ll go dancin’

I won’t dance with the sisters who like to flirt
Or be entranced by the whispering winds, I’m alert
I won’t dance with the girl with the patchwork skirt
On All Hollows’ Eve they’ll be dancin’

I’ll sit in the graveyard and mutter the curse
Until my beloved rises up from the dirt
She’ll look in my eyes and know that I’m pure
On All Hollows’ Eve we’ll go dancin’

On All Hollows’ Eve we’ll go dancin’

(Say what we are all thinking...)

Tuesday, September 30th, 2008
4:42 pm


Poem...Collapse )

(Say what we are all thinking...)

Monday, August 25th, 2008
11:53 pm
His appearance does not pose a problem. His face
is pockmarked – not with acne it
is a skin problem he explained once to me – autoimmune,
I can’t recall the rest (I don’t know
anyone who isn’t broken) he slid his hands
into my belt loops. Maybe I imagine
that he cares about the novelty.
He doesn’t get close
to it anyway because that isn’t
what I do. (I am not
what I do) instead I do
what I do in the stall of a public bathroom – not rest
room men’s room loo a genuine American
shithole. This is an ordinary story in which
he hits another boy for calling me a name.
He’s decent. The ten
in my pocket afterwards feels
presumptuous. Why pay for what was freely given?
Perhaps he thinks his skin has made me sick – he doesn’t know
what makes us sick (boys like me, fontanelles still shaking)
I never asked. They gave anyway. But I know they will.
(I do not sell myself.
People buy me.
There’s a difference.) Traditionally
such honest whores as I
have not been much enamored
with the customers, who ask to
stay, safe in over-shadowed eyes
and am not an opera, something
ordinary, a lost boy with paper in
his pocket, greasy green and
I don’t know why.

(More poetry, hopefully of an even worse nature, can be found at my journal.)

(1 clear conscience | Say what we are all thinking...)

4:48 pm
Requited Love
The sun beats down on the same patch of grass day in and day out.
When snows first melt and the bits of green poke through, it is one of life's small miracles.

An infant cries for the first time in its mother's arms.
In that tiny distraught voice is a world of potential.

I sit on a park bench, pen in hand.
Children run by with butterfly nets, chasing a dozen floating monarchs through the grass as it begins to turn.

These are the images of our lives.
Under the pressure of the sun, uninterrupted, the rich greens fade to brown fade to dust.
The infant becomes a child, chasing butterflies.
Butterflies, left in a jar.
The children love them so.
They will nourish them.
Like the sun will nourish the grass around them.

I rise to go, thinking that perhaps a break is in order.

(Say what we are all thinking...)

Sunday, June 22nd, 2008
1:31 pm

(1 clear conscience | Say what we are all thinking...)

Saturday, April 26th, 2008
12:40 am
most days
my brain is a train
a locomotive
but lately it's a dumptruck
spilling out the mindfuck
emotive asphalt to pave me under
cognitive controller
madman steamroller
wreckingball stupor
crashing down

(1 clear conscience | Say what we are all thinking...)

Wednesday, April 23rd, 2008
12:55 am
this one:

distant, diminutive
creepy, scheming boy
seeks obscene
brutal, beautiful
barbarian girl
for take-no-prisoners
rebel rock
guerrilla lifestyle
and thrashing flailing
romancing of the machine

or this one:

distant, diminutive
scheming creep of a boy
seeks obscene
brutal, beautiful
barbarian girl
to rock like rebels and
for revolutionary
flailing thrash metal
romancing of the machine


(2 clear consciences | Say what we are all thinking...)

Friday, April 11th, 2008
3:15 pm

I was a little girl
Playing little girl games
Little legs, chasing,
Little heart, beating
Little lungs, gasping for air
And maybe I am not so little
But sometimes my breath
Will catch
And my heart will skip a beat
And now that I've caught you,
"You're it!"

(Say what we are all thinking...)

1:18 pm
icicle vines
I came here to die but now I’m suddenly afraid
In the refrigerated atmosphere, the arctic shade
Unreciprocated passions form in irrational spheres
The grass will grow but still it’s uninhabitable here
The icicle vines sent a slow chill up my spine
Like fingernails playing spiders on my mind
Just cooling out like birds on a telephone line
The white sculptures shine they’re my lifeline

In the wintertime when the weather is cold
I can breathe right out and see my soul
See it floating
See it floating in the air

(Say what we are all thinking...)

Sunday, February 24th, 2008
1:54 am
Tear streaked smeared cheeks
Under piercings she peers deep
Into her reflection on the log-
-wood pew, through the fog
Into the mystified misty eyes
Of a girl who seems just alive
For the deep long quest to belong
For a sign, be it divine or neon
Palms pressed, fingers folded
Prayer spoken, softly misquoted
Half remembered from last December
Cast in embers, a past she centers
On traps of morality, empty spaces
Hail Marys and empty graces
Escaped without a trace or trail
Replaced the snail’s pace, the veil
With a race to give existence a kiss
To realize a wish, to prove she exists
With bitten wrists unfit to be slit
In the grips of a fist you can’t resist
Coasting, she’s soaked her toes in
The sensual ocean of perpetual motion
Broken as trust by unprepared lust
But repaired by the touch that bears us

Be it divine as the curse
That the life we’ve lived can’t be taken back
Or be it neon as the blessing
That the life we’ve lived can’t be taken back
She’s been taken aback, shaken, cracked
Blamed but in fact she’s blazing a track
To a change that can’t be claimed as a lesson
Compared, contrasted, categorized, the caressing
Of sun beams through stained glass, she felt it
The pain passed leaving the pressing in her belly
Heeeeeeeere’s Your Sign

(Say what we are all thinking...)

Sunday, February 3rd, 2008
8:45 pm
Not a poem
This is not a poem.
This is not about you.

I'm the one who gets bored on calm waters.
I rock the boat when all seems still.
It's not that i invite the strom in
I just want to feel a little thrill.

(Say what we are all thinking...)

Sunday, November 25th, 2007
7:56 pm
Moth vs. Flame
I am too delicate;
I cannot be touched,
And held, and kept
Without taking away
My freedom
Of flight.
I would wilt, and
Under the weight of
Even your most gentle
Of caresses.
And maybe that is why
Instead I try
To burn.

(2 clear consciences | Say what we are all thinking...)

Saturday, November 3rd, 2007
1:38 am
The Men Who Made My Mother. (Go easy on me, it was a tough one to put to words.)
Men have such a strange effect
On the opposite sex.
Like the superiority syndrome of decades ago,
Is still secretly implanted
In even the most liberated minds
Of the female
I want to impress
With my finesse.
I want to bleed dry
And bend over backwards.
I will defend and
Depend upon your
Opinions of myself,
And I will do it all,
I will bleed and plead and bend,
And I will do it all,
So you will love me.

My mother is a beautiful woman,
She is strong, and bold
And brave,
Like all mothers are.
I had never seen her buckle
Under the weight of bills,
Under the pressures of success,
Under the speculative eyes of judgment.
I had never seen her waver
In the wake of my teenage terror,
And if that weren’t cause enough
To revere her,
She could do it all, and still have dinner
On the table
By six.
My mother is the strongest, bravest,
Most beautiful woman in the world,
Except when it comes
To men.
Fathers, brothers, boyfriends, sons,
And god forbid the married ones,
My mother was molded by the
Foolish fingers of
Dead-beats, drug abusers,
Alcoholics, Woman beaters,
And the occasional
Mildly psychotic, co-dependent
Of other women.
And somehow, over time,
This array of the stronger sex,
Have convinced an intelligent,
And beautiful woman,
That she is nothing more
Than what they make of her.
I am a beautiful woman,
Genetically molded in my mothers image.
And sometimes I forget,
That the men who made my mother,
Do not have to be
The men who make

(4 clear consciences | Say what we are all thinking...)

Sunday, October 14th, 2007
12:47 am
From Russia with love...

Место на земле/Place on Earth

To day I tried to shoot my cock
A pistols was loaded & locked
And then I listened a slightly squeeze
I saw the faces screamed kids.

To day I tried to trim my dick
And will become a natural freak,
But girlies licked big ice-cream
I ran away her breathing stream.

To day I tried to cut my glands,
It was a hard my little friends,
I found only rusted knife
Because that I still alive.

To day I tried to squash my head
Thom sang about on radio set
I rose a volume and will see
“The city sunset over me”

To day I tried to kill my self
I ask my baby about help
She bent and I’ll in inside
Her cherry lips, her legs, oh my!...

(1 clear conscience | Say what we are all thinking...)

Wednesday, October 3rd, 2007
8:42 am
Cortico the Frivolous
Hello... Hello my name is Cortico.
I talk fast, smile large, walk slow, and take charge.
People love me...
I guess it's in my nature.
Naturally funny, or whatever, I just talk and people cater.
And I don't know...
Sometimes I really don't know why,
But it just goes to show, with a life that seems to roll,
what you're able to get when you just don't even try.

I've got friends...
With people lining up.
They all want to be around, but I swear I'm overstocked.
I party hard...
I party long, Man, I guess I just like to party,
but at the end of the day sometimes it's just retarded.
I'll lay at night...
staring directly at the ceiling.
Wondering where my life is, where it's gone, and if there's a meaning,
to this crap existence...
It's pushing on my patience.
I find it almost frivolous. Not sure where my days went.
It doesn't matter...
I just feel so incredulous.
With a life like this, how could I expect anything less.
My friends don't care...
So I'll just go and make some more.
They just keep coming and keep going, leaves me feeling like a whore.
But that's just life...
Of a guy with nothing left to offer.
Behind all the drinks and all the laughs, there's just an empty coffer,
I'm fucking lonely...
and no one really understands,
but I guess I'll just keep running until someone takes my hand,

and says...

Take time to look around you.
You were lost and now I've found you.
Quit running and take a moment,
Go back to the ones that love you.
You're living frivolously...
You're tripping and you're falling.
Open your ears, and you'll hear.
Your real friends have been calling.
You're completely wasted...
Not drunk, I'm talking about your life.
It sucks, and you really wonder why?
Shape up.

I'm walking lonely pavement...
Guys are talking, but I'm not listening.
An urban sidewalk...
There's no telling what I'm missing,
because I'm wasting...
All my precious little time...
entertaining fucking losers when it should be me that's on my mind.
I think I'm fucked...
If I don't get my act together.
then I'll be stuck...
So I should pull myself together, and shape up.

(2 clear consciences | Say what we are all thinking...)

Monday, September 17th, 2007
12:10 am
Way old stuff.
There are boxes and rolls of tape, stripped bare of everything they ever were.
There are pictures on the ground, and the nails in the walls are obsolete and dour.
If the vases weren't empty, the flowers would be dead
Mid-bloom, and brooding
Over beauty that was promised
Then denied.
And like all tired and thirsty things, I have rigged
The cupboard doors
So that the emptiness inside will never show
Through panes of plexiglass
And wood.
I will never open them again, and even if I tried
There would be nothing there to compensate
My efforts.
There are people always watching, from the safety of their open windows
I bet their cupboards are filled with shelves
Of crystal and glass.
I hope their dinner plates shatter on their tiled floors,
And their forks and knives are bent beyond repair,
So they will starve, or choke
On bites too big to swallow.
But for now, they will watch us in our bare feet
Running through rocks
And blades of sympathetic grass,
Passing boxes through hands that would be better
Put to use around their necks,
And tightly closed
Just like the doors to our empty bedroom, where I used to sleep.
Keys to doors and gates and vehicles,
(And secrets they know I'm keeping)
Keep time with my
Awkward steps
As I pace through hallways that sigh with restrained
Hallways have no personalities. They are just tunnels
To places we would rather be.
But at least, they were not disappointed
Like our dead flowers
Who's primary function was to
Look pretty.
And like all tired and pretty things,
I have shut the doors
And turned the locks
And left behind
But unfulfilled promises.

What happend to my talent? What happened
To my resolve?
Lost somewhere between bad inventions,
And policies, or codes of conduct,
...Or something about listening
To the way the rain pounds
Out the itinerary;
Chilly winds,
12 hour graveyard shifts,
And that bitch from section 3
With a bad attitude
And strategic nose ring
That I sometimes think about
Ripping out with my
Frantic fingers.
But that would be a waste of time
Since I'd be called to aisle four
To clean the blood off the floor.

(2 clear consciences | Say what we are all thinking...)

Saturday, September 15th, 2007
9:32 pm

Blasphemous Grrrrl


I feel...
disconnected, shattered, awaiting the awakening penatration of...
I feel ...
morbid, reluctant, repugnant, obsese in my manner,
tomorrow's reality never comes true
and yesterday's today was Zoloft induced...
I hate...
that I am wicked, unwanted, self-aborsed with seculsion - mutilation,
I am...
not me, not you, who would I like to be?
Liberation by tongues of wisdom speaking only to me,
and as far fetched as it may seem,
there is not end in sight,
when suicide is not an option...
all you can do is fight.

© Lisa Vicious 2007

(2 clear consciences | Say what we are all thinking...)

Wednesday, September 5th, 2007
11:08 pm

I have broken the space-time continuum.
The strands of a thousand seconds spiral, splitting
like the syllables of your soul.
Spun-gold silence reigns supreme, 
suppressing the scrabble and squalor of life
and dripping through the doorway
drop by dimming drop
the rent fabric of time recedes.

I have broken the space-time continuum
But only in one room.

The tumultuous ticking 
of the grandather clock;
ancient, unforgiving and ensconced in your heart 
But just through the door,
the kitchen clock tuts, 

a reminder we will be late.

(1 clear conscience | Say what we are all thinking...)

Saturday, August 25th, 2007
11:44 pm
Doctor, I said,
Foster my doubts,
There's an imposter about
Where my heart used to be
"It's beating, don't worry,"
He kept on repeating,
But I'm in a hurry to figure this out.
It works, I assured him,
But it hurts while it does,
It died, but it beats
And I'm blaming my lungs.
You see, my hearts beating,
But it's bleeding
To death, something's wrong
But as long as I'm breathing,
It's bound to beat on,
But it's erratic,
And I'm frantic,
Although the surface
Stays calm.
I'd break it, or breach it
But I'm far too far gone.
I'm dying,
But my lungs, they keep on.
And as long as I'm breathing
My heart beats along.
"There''s no quick fix," He said,
With a lick of his lips,
As he flipped through other cases
That sounded like this,
"It's a common affliction,
But no perscription I can give,
No disease to defeat
In a heart that still beats.
You'll live."
He stated,
Then began to retreat.
I protested
His lack of investment in me,
And requested advice or
He said,
"If your problem is breathing
While bleeding
To death,
My only suggestion
Is holding your breath."

(5 clear consciences | Say what we are all thinking...)

Wednesday, May 30th, 2007
4:05 pm
I Dedicate This To You
There are times when life gets me down
And all I see is this cloud hanging over.
These times are when I feel at my lowest.
It seems I'll never pick myself back up.
But it's in those times you're there.
Floating somewhere, even if you can't be seen,
Telling me things will be ok.
The tools you use, not words, but thoughts
That keep me strong and clear headed.
And it's to you I dedicate this.

There are times when life couldn't get any better.
Nothing but clear skies.
These are the times when I feel free.
The horizon's my flight destination.
And it's in those times you're there.
Somewhere below, unseen and unheard,
Keeping me from flying too high.
A loving anchor who keeps me grounded.
And it's to you I dedicate this.

This world's a crazy place
With a mess of emotions in the mix.
These times are made of anything and everything.
All doors have been opened.
And I know,it's in these times,
You'll be there.
Small and insignificant in the greater scheme of things.
But to me, you are all.
And it's to you I dedicate this.

~Brian Jackson

Current Mood: okay

(Say what we are all thinking...)

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