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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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welcome to the first release of F.U.C.K.'s poetry venture.
as more submissions for the zine come in, the more poetry
i see. because of the structure of the base zine, i felt
a separate series would be in order. as you all know,
demonika has been a big contributor to the zine, and her
files are more poetic overall. this lead me to solicit
her help in the new venture.
there are no set boundaries for this part of the zine.
we only look for poems that express the feelings of the
author, and do not look for any specific topic. in fact,
poems about unconventional topics are especially welcome.
as always, feedback (good or bad) is welcome. let us know
what you think so that we may improve the quality as
needed. in the mean time...
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magnetic poetry i.
in his raw garden dreams
delicious poetry is less
a gifted language than an
urge essential to him.
if he produced a whisper of beauty,
could he rip out the
frantic void in his breast?
demonika
regarding inner turmoil
Silenced pain my warmth at night,
while in my mind a raging fight,
the longing to take a final breath
and slip into awaiting death.
Chilling coldness burns my fingers,
emotional scars can only linger,
Confusion and chaos wrap around me
seemingly eternal will it be
one thing in my life keeps me sane,
on my warm face a refreshing rain.
dis 1995
A weight of gold, laid upon my head.
A pound of hatred, and a pinch of spite,
add a twist of fate, and a hint of spice,
and there you have, the piece upon my body.
Bronzing powder awaits, somewhere,
as I think to live on.
Paying a price, for something that I never did,
and would never do again.
Making a place, in this hellish hole,
for me, myself and I.
To hide and make do, with what life I had lived.
A coffin once picked out,
lies open, just for me.
A pint of boiling gold, a pound of hatred,
a pinch of spite.
Mix and stir, and there you have,
the makings of this tortured soul.
Add a twist of fate, and a hint of spice,
and there you have, the piece upon my head,
that weighs me down, and pushes me further
down, then hells basement.
For, here I am, burning and dying,
for something I never dreamt of doing.
kamira October 21st, 1997
"I'm not as messed up as I want to be." - They Might be Giants
Why is the world so broken? Who put the dead birds so
high in the tree? Can you catch the dust so diluted in the
air? Can you kiss the cheek of Mother Nature then swear you
never cared? It rains milk on Sunday afternoon, and orange
juice in the morning. Who has the keys to the kingdom, and
who touched the silk bread bring hanging to the wind? It is
too bad the silver lined sky has been plastered with red brink.
It is too bad that the rats under our rugs are mechanical in
nature. For if the world has been a better place we would all
still be alive, instead of being eaten from the inside out.
rage-303
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E D I T O R S: jericho@dim.com & demonika@dim.com
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to receive new issues via e-mail, send mail to
jericho@dimensional.com with "subscribe poetry". if
you do not have FTP access and would like back issues,
send a list of missing issues and they will be sent.
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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.dimensional.com/~jericho
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(c) Copyright. All files copyright by original author.
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F O U N D E D: October 30, 1997