| Poem: Submit | Random | Best | Worst | Recent | Comments |
|
Grind (Free verse) by INTRANSIT I dug a hole
and buried myself.
I took everything I had
and put it underground to decay,
and welcomed the invisible world.
A world of the unseen vitamin,
where thoughts become the
granules of life.
Where dirt is edible and tastes
like the sun. Where moisture
rinses the nerve-bones back
to conciousness.
This fathom
My fathom underneath
a garden of park-weed,
meant to mesh with
the grind-stone until I am
a solid part of
the broken earth.
See my epitaph
it has not been written.
Up the ladder:
Out of a White Hole
Down the ladder:
Missing the In-Between
Votes: (green: user, blue: anonymous)
Arithmetic Mean: 6.888889
Posted: November 25, 2003 6:40 AM PST; Last modified: November 25, 2003 6:40 AM PSTWeighted score: 5.9444447 Overall Rank: 1384 Comments:
Um, refreshing?
Real.
interesting.
I have pause with this bit: "This fathom My fathom underneath " - was this intentional; the abruptness and lack of punctuation with the next line capped makes me scratch my head. the line with edible dirt has a very nice impression to it. not sure what to make of this one, but generally I'm the happier for it. have a sideways infinity (and yes, I have that line in something already) -8-
I dig your hole! jugular, vascular
This is my kinda thing and as a writer of death, graves and balh blah blah i give you maximum respect on this one. I'm tenning ya baby !
oh yeah ! By the way the name please of the grandfather clock (ripping its guts out poem please????)
I took everything I had and put it underground to decay, and welcomed the invisible world. A world of the unseen vitamin, where thoughts become the granules of life. Where dirt is edible and tastes like the sun.
Love the last 2 lines.
303 view(s)
|
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
Its ok man, I'm on your side- everyones yammered at me for being "cryptic". Oh, and heres a ten.
Sadly though, not many will actually go through the trouble to unravel a poem- its amazing how many people get turned off when they might need to jolt up the noggen.
In the end though, I feel a poem that has room for movement and is flexible in meaning and thought lives longer: theres room for it to evolve on its own.
My comrade.. we will carve a hall to rome; and it shall be great.