F U C K E D U P C O L L E G E K I D S ------------------------------------------------------- - t h e p o e t r y v e n t u r e - ------------------------------------------------------- poets are often souls of the tortured variety. the tortured soul is in touch with pieces of himself that most people are not even aware of until they read that one line or phrase that reminds them of the dark places that they seek to hide or ignore. often, the poet is a loner, or only seeks the company of others similarly tortured - an irony, for much of the genius in poetry lies in the universality of the human experience. ------------------------------------------------------- PURSUING MOODS To Tracey Hilkey i hear footsteps following me or maybe i'm following them but in the early morning, when everything is quiet and it seems no one is around, there's enough aroused to scare me into believing it's afternoon and i should be somewhere else, doing things normal people would do in the later stages of a day, but instead i find myself keeping watch on a world that won't sleep alone because in the flickering night sky, this planet makes love with various massive bodies that float in its atmosphere and still, and still i listen for those footsteps to remind me that i cannot escape from being followed and i cannot stop following someone although i do not see anyone there's no touch, no voice and there's just a sound trying to tell me something about this path i take, about myself and how it cannot be sane to wander blindly behind invisible footsteps or realize footsteps are walking hand in hand with my tracks, with my frustration that swells in my feet, that lingers in my face, that travels through my tunnels to seek that shimmering light but i cannot cut myself to let blood force out my indelible hatred, to taste an inner freedom that gropes for an opportunity to feel like a normal shadow walking in front of the pack, not behind where footsteps rattle the staircase and i am confident, in rare form, to shout for someone to step forward, reveal that he is that constant in my life, this imaginary friends i've spoken with since i was seven, since i fell into desperate hallways inside school buildings that helped trap myself within my invisible cosmos, where words on paper gave me shelter gave me something to savor when underestimated forces swallowed me whole, to digest me inside their stomach tract where i found myself surrounded by people without faces, without voices, without any markings to distinguish one person's fears from another's but we felt safe, we could share feelings with just words written down and when we finish this digestive process we can, i can again hear footsteps made by an imaginary friend or some wingless guardian angel that can comfort only through telepathic means, that motivates through photosynthesis, needing nothing but someone to believe in them and i believe in footsteps that guide me to somewhere that i can feel secure with my voice, my face and with those scars only i can see on the membranes inside and i'll secure faith in what spirituality rests, or works, in my poems because that's where my happiness waits for me to take control and forget about footsteps that lead, footsteps that follow me endless journey nowhere because the best footsteps are those i strategically, those i confidently place for others to examine how i paced myself in trying to deal with everyone's footsteps Indiana Poet April 2, 1998 tears run down my face, but now even that is just a fantasy, made callused from the inside, my own stupidity burns my soul. outside the skin is still tender, but I forget and put it too close to the blade, getting cut again, but nothing like my inner scars, and the skin becomes harder. now even immortal gods and love can't make me feel, no one hurts me but me, no one makes me happy but me, no one loves me but me. with all this callousness I can finally get closer to what i want, I can be who I am not, but who they want me to be, my soul can finally be sold, now being ripped from my body, causing no pain. happiness from about, others making me happy, finally friends, finally hope, maybe some day even love. an offhand comment, a slip this hollow shell shouldn't make, the others see what makes the blood pump through my veins, they see past all the callused skin, they see into what is left of my soul. they all cringe in hatred, not understanding what they are seeing, I try to explain, to help them understand, but how can they when I don't either, all I know is that it is real, and it is me. they run, all it took was a second, left standing alone again, they crack in my skin leaving an open wound, must wait, only time, before it will heal. I stare at the wound, hurting me as much as it hurts them, none will accept it, my blood too red, from the crack comes what I hadn't felt for so long, the tears finally run down my face. Dactrius meaning in art static depression, the start. my brush of anguish resounding splendor manifests before me the cry of hope amidst the repressed shackles of fury cage their power null hope, a wondering glimpse taste the sight or smell the aura square one, am I done? mea culpa 12-16-97 Childs Eyes Did you ever stare into a child's eyes? can you see the innocence? the desire to live Look again into the child's eyes once reality sinks in... Do you ever wonder where it all went? The stained glass illusions. The dreams of catching rainbows. A strong harsh wind had silenced his internal flame forever Vengeance and fear thrives deep beneath the scars he bears All hope vanquished powerless, frightened eyes pleading for your mercy The longer his gaze lingered, The more rivers flowed, reaching the ocean of your soul, The harder the impact of your callous blows. Did you ever stare into a child's eyes? and wonder........ When the angelic blue turned icy? Did you ever stare into a child's eyes? and wonder.............. Can I ever be forgiven? Did you ever stare into a child's eyes? and wonder............. Will he really pull the trigger? Did you ever stare into a child's eyes? and wonder. Bluerose Hello dark eyes of shady suspicion, my surveillance of you has turned too caring, with permission may I move forward and hold you, a melting memoir relaxed for eternity, discreet in passion you take me behind shadows, a harmless secret of tempting desire. Hello dark eyes of shady suspicion, my moment with you has turned too erotic, now delicacy demands we part for a while, to cryptic realms we share the darkness, your echo of desire is drawing me closer, alone we are to emit are emotions. Hello dark eyes of shady suspicion, my time with you has turned to love, rowing through oceans of stormy emotions, I forever feel your breathe upon my body, inside of me you are I confess this love, together forever I will please your lust. Puncture Defy the manner in which all is known Not knowing the history, nor asking. Future of the present is here now. Deem who to be worth of such, and all shatters at your touch. Not knowing does such. Capture the memories, black and white single snapshot in a mind gone blank. Past is no longer in search of the present. Torture your memory to remember, such things should have been long forgotten. Leave now, to only reach the "to be". Toss away all hopes and dreams, do not claim to be a god. The power is gone, and the sight is lost. -Kamira March 20, 1998 ------------------------------------------------------- E D I T O R S: jericho@dim.com & demonika@dim.com ------------------------------------------------------- to receive new issues via e-mail, send mail to majordomo@sekurity.org 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. ------------------------------------------------------- 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 ------------------------------------------------------- (c) Copyright. All poems copyright by original author. ------------------------------------------------------- F O U N D E D: October 30, 1997