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F U C K E D U P C O L L E G E K I D S
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- t h e p o e t r y v e n t u r e -
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i often think of ways to describe this zine, and I
usually come up short. this is no exception.
why the appeal of poetry? i think the lack of formal
english.. the pure chaos that can ensue in the words
gives it appeal.
other times i think the randomness finds home in the
free will we all have. or perhaps it is something
else.
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Freedom...
The house was empty when he got home.
It was better like that.
Noone could understand he needed to leave.
He needed to be free.
He was eager to be on his way,
to where he'd be happy.
So he sat at his desk and typed a goodbye letter.
He'd miss his pals, but promised to see them again, someday.
He'd need to prepare for his trip now.
He began to fill the tub with warm water,
not bothering to remove his cloths.
For a second he wondered, is leaving a
temporary solution to a permenant problem?
No. Life is an eternal problem.
With that he reached for his blade,
Swiftly making 2 incisions, down eigther wrist.
Just like that
his wrists began to drain his angst
into the warm water.
The Pain was leaving quickly...
The Deceit
The Depresion
The Breakdowns
The Tears
The...
I'll love you forever...Monte, I promise.
all fucking gone now...exiting from wrist to water.
No more being alone...
no more being anything anymore.
It all drains from him. slowly...
He feels a tingle over his body
as he gets light headed.
He smiles, with a tear in his eye.
"I'd rather die then lose your love."
He dips his head into the now crimson pool.
He inhales its warmth.
His vision turns to black.
And now...
Freedom...
Montell the p3nny
Reason
Often one hundred words to express
a single thought or desire. The beauty
of unmoderated speak. To directionless
travel and eternal unforgiven. All to
say such a simple thing.
The things we do. The lies we vomit.
Actions as foreign as heaven itself.
All come natual by some miracle.
For what? The one thing that seldom
exposes itself in meaningful form.
A curse or blessing among the chaos
of heart. The primary slice of
ruling passion.
Love can certainly condemn.
an untitled work of agony
night stillness trembles with the slither soft sound
of my heart
i n ch i n g away from me
it makes a bloody path
pocked with the black wounds of loss
i tie a pink ribbon around it
and put it in a box
for safekeeping
demonika
SILENCE ECHOES
Silence echoes
still and wide
far within
the place beside
where your voice, heard
amongst the roar
of mem'ries found
the day before,
was lost amongst
the thoughts that I
could not speak out
nor even cry.
At times I'm lost
for things to say,
and so in haste
I drift away
too far from you
to even see
the one who angers
me is me;
who, though strewn
in rage's quarry,
implores you to believe
I'm sorry.
Cancer Omega
UNTITLED
Do you remember your first time
the excitement you felt at the end of the line?
Do you remember the creamy white satin?
With each turn a new twist arose
you understood it far better than most
Losing yourself between the covers
Never knowing you'd be lovers
Finding pleasure with each twirl
of the tongue
Caressing the words
one by one
When it was over, you're whole body shook
These pleasures can only be found
inside a book
Bluerose
Naive with intent, hurt and overspent,
You experience a dramatic event,
Unwanted and untrue, battered and confused,
Your mind starts to twist.
Second thoughts begin to chime,
If you only knew the time,
Your love could sense the truth,
Even though whats the use,
You lost whats left, abused,
Your pride and will to choose,
The mate you one day sought,
The one whose blind from thought.
If hidden agendas bother your night,
Open the door, and send them in flight,
A difficult task to unwind, at last,
But now omnicient you are,
A sight to see thus far,
Your now a shining star!
sadia
SAY NO TO "MELTING POT" THEORISTS
swallowing hard, i find avant-garde prussians
lingering in my reflection, with german arrogances
squeezed into my fingers; an anglo-saxophone tune.
neutral swiss; banking on my central europe heritage
where religious fractions were divided and multiplied,
leaving my family little recourse but to learn america.
now i am some generation icon, gapped from historial accuracy
by people whose forefathers probably kissed my foremothers once;
inconsistencies in backgrounds still force everyone apart.
April 28, 1998
Indiana Poet
Speaker
Numerous lines flow out,
untouchable strings,
that hold my heart.
Reaching past my body,
into the depth of what is unseen.
Surrounding my every breath.
Streaming itno my very veins,
steam is released through my pores.
Leaving me, having been cleansed.
Winding through my very spirit,
it lifts my soul higher.
Body is only an image.
An image that is better
to have forgotten
then to ever redeem.
-Kamira March 20, 1998
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E D I T O R S: jericho@dim.com & demonika@dim.com
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A V A I L A B I L I T Y:
AnonFTP: FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK/POETRY
WWW: http://www.sekurity.org/~poetry
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(c) Copyright. All poems copyright by original author.
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F O U N D E D: October 30, 1997