reinventing rogue realities since 1994.

Name's aris. 19940218.
I'm kinda pathetic.

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Posts tagged poetry


An Ode To Eight Boys I’ve Kissed | Thought Catalog 

Poetry Magazines - Farmer 

Sometimes I want to become a farmer.
Not because my ancestors were farmers
And i’m supposed to have it in my blood,
Nor is it because I’ve lived on a farm
And the experience inspired me.

I don’t want to be the sort of farmer
That Heaney talks about in his poems,
A farmer that is at one with the land
And farms not as their job but as their life.

I want to be a farmer like Burroughs.
I would wait out my boredom on my farm
Keep busy with hard work and earn money
And when I leave I would leave my boredom
Lying battered in the soil behind me
With a snapped shovel bloody beside it.

— Gerard McKeown

(Source: wanderlostxx)

I like to run these lines 
and make believe 
It gets easier 
Although I know
with time it just might go

And all these lonely years
and broken strings
can’t make the music
stick down to my bones

So I take planes and trains
to go so far
And I try to make it back
on time to see
how much has changed

Yet still I find myself
so unashamed
about the painful loneliness 
I seem to have brought out

And with the moon up high
and ground below
I dry my tears and whisper
to the stars that keep me safe 

Why so far away 
when I’m right here  
to watch the lights
go out  

Entries of an Imaginary Alter-Ego. 20121030. 

The Fearful 

This man makes a pseudonym 
And crawls behind it like a worm.

This woman on the telephone
Says she is a man, not a woman.

The mask increases, eats the worm,
Stripes for mouth and eyes and nose,

The voice of the woman hollows—
More and more like a dead one,

Worms in the glottal stops.
She hates

The thought of a baby—
Stealer of cells, stealer of beauty—

She would rather be dead than fat,
Dead and perfect, like Nefertit,

Hearing the fierce mask magnify
The silver limbo of each eye

Where the child can never swim,
Where there is only him and him.  

Sylvia Plath. 16 November 1962. 

In Retrospect 

Last year changed its seasons 
subtly, stripped its sultry winds
for the reds of dying leaves, let
gelid drips of winter ice melt onto a
warming earth and urged the dormant
bulbs to brave the
pain of spring.

We, loving, above the whim of
time, did not notice.

Alone. I remember now.

 Maya Angelou.


Shel Silverstein


The passing days and passing hours
Steering closer to disaster
They don’t know what they are after
They don’t know what should
Come after 

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A walled city 
Within a city of walls 
Begging to be explored 
Begging to be hidden

Within these walls 
And rooms and tombs 
Are secrets and sorrows 
Are forgotten tomorrows

The cracks are listening 
And the dust is whispering 
Calling out to the transient 
As if they were sentient

Surfaces touch and feel 
But cannot that way feel 
Cold to the touch 
Cold but not much

Within these walls 
They are all alone 
Without these walls 
Still all on their own 

(via aeronid|Flickr)


The silence resounds
Echoing through the airs
Carry voices to their homes 

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