Some "Vogon Poetry"
culinaryoverlord
Regular
The thread for creative writing is gone, so I suppose this fits here, but feel free to move it.
These are some poems I wrote when I was a piece of utter wreckage, I found them wedged into a Heavy Metal mag in some of my old stuff. I had just broken up with my last girlfriend, and was way down in the hole. Reading them brought back some odd memories, but for some reason I think they are good, or at least drawn from a place I can only touch when I am in my darkest moods.
"horny old men"
the money is hot in my pocket
seven hundred dollars
proceeds of sin
proceeds of the lust
of horny old men who rent movies
of women they can never know
sinking cocks in painful and degrading ways
I hope they enjoyed it as much
as I enjoy their money
painful
so I buy a guitar
the cheapest I can find
do you want something better
no I want something worse
something that matches
and he takes my money
with the same tight smile
I gave the horny old men
"Jill"
Jill is stepping over caterpillars
deliberate and kind
I crush one as we walk away
unseen
unnoticed
prickish
"A-2"
some food in your dish
and an open back door
a lot of food
I won't be back
the neighbors will take you in
they will
I know
they are a good sort
listeners
faggots and dykes
best I've known for a while
better than the death threatening roomate
better than the bastards that
shut down the bar I was working at
better than me
I shoulder my pack
and take the long steps
when I cross the street
you are on the corner behind me
howling your goodbye
"I did this for you"
my mother points to the scars on her wrist
I point to mine
and swing
an open hand
at the glass above
smash, release
cry
pick up pieces, blood is flowing
a stitch job for sure
my cousin comes with me
new to this fight
escaping his own
a kindly doctor
with a good hand
and we are on our way
at the arcade
Dave sells me two smokes for thirty cents
and doesn't ask me
where I got the bandage
Even if I wanted to write like this again I couldn't, when I wrote these the doors to my personal hell were open and I was writhing in torment with the demons. I don't want to be there again, ever. I am very curious to see what my fellow totseans will make of this, whether what I was feeling when I wrote it will come across to a reader. I was reading some Buckowsky at the time and the way He managed to create poetry without using poetic devices like rhyme, meter, or just about anything except raw emotion, really inspired me. And I wrote.
C/O
"at your mercy"
These are some poems I wrote when I was a piece of utter wreckage, I found them wedged into a Heavy Metal mag in some of my old stuff. I had just broken up with my last girlfriend, and was way down in the hole. Reading them brought back some odd memories, but for some reason I think they are good, or at least drawn from a place I can only touch when I am in my darkest moods.
"horny old men"
the money is hot in my pocket
seven hundred dollars
proceeds of sin
proceeds of the lust
of horny old men who rent movies
of women they can never know
sinking cocks in painful and degrading ways
I hope they enjoyed it as much
as I enjoy their money
painful
so I buy a guitar
the cheapest I can find
do you want something better
no I want something worse
something that matches
and he takes my money
with the same tight smile
I gave the horny old men
"Jill"
Jill is stepping over caterpillars
deliberate and kind
I crush one as we walk away
unseen
unnoticed
prickish
"A-2"
some food in your dish
and an open back door
a lot of food
I won't be back
the neighbors will take you in
they will
I know
they are a good sort
listeners
faggots and dykes
best I've known for a while
better than the death threatening roomate
better than the bastards that
shut down the bar I was working at
better than me
I shoulder my pack
and take the long steps
when I cross the street
you are on the corner behind me
howling your goodbye
"I did this for you"
my mother points to the scars on her wrist
I point to mine
and swing
an open hand
at the glass above
smash, release
cry
pick up pieces, blood is flowing
a stitch job for sure
my cousin comes with me
new to this fight
escaping his own
a kindly doctor
with a good hand
and we are on our way
at the arcade
Dave sells me two smokes for thirty cents
and doesn't ask me
where I got the bandage
Even if I wanted to write like this again I couldn't, when I wrote these the doors to my personal hell were open and I was writhing in torment with the demons. I don't want to be there again, ever. I am very curious to see what my fellow totseans will make of this, whether what I was feeling when I wrote it will come across to a reader. I was reading some Buckowsky at the time and the way He managed to create poetry without using poetic devices like rhyme, meter, or just about anything except raw emotion, really inspired me. And I wrote.
C/O
"at your mercy"