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 - ------------------------------------------------------- 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. ------------------------------------------------------- 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 ------------------------------------------------------- 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.sekurity.org/~poetry ------------------------------------------------------- (c) Copyright. All poems copyright by original author. ------------------------------------------------------- F O U N D E D: October 30, 1997