the sieve and the sand » poetry

poem

David X. Hugo — Mon, 03 Jan 2011 12:05:37 +0000

here he sits reading
the cliff notes in a
history book
listening to far out
jazz

the main character
in a book he’s
currently working on

is he the writer?
is he the protagonist?
is he both?

every day he wakes
with old eyes and
a young heart
and the pages fill
and disappear

all with the same
fiction
the same drivel
different titles

he finds familiar
dialogue in his stories
he sees his own words
in the history book

he thinks “man,
i must be the
only one alive
out here”

Debt from an Asylum

freakynewchild — Tue, 28 Sep 2010 08:41:08 +0000

Get me a pill a sadness kill
an acre of kaleidoscopic hope
a jolt for my shadow child, and
vivid crayons to seal him on an
immaculate page, and I
I will be your eldorado
your rumbling mut
your lucky charm
your warm coat for the winter
I will be a sunshine touch on your
acoustic heart strings.

trying to find the center

David X. Hugo — Tue, 10 Aug 2010 23:26:18 +0000

alone is different than lonely
but god I tell you I am both
and am walking ’round in circles, here
trying to find the center

and this is a true account of my days
written here for you to see
as usual, and of course
I can’t let go of the words, oh

what’s more is you can have all my stuff
i don’t care about much anymore
but i miss your dog, i miss your dog
yeah yeah, yeah yeah, etc

but if you wanted me (and you don’t)
I would’ve saved you yes I would
but your love is such a weighty lie
your love is just a sucker game.

partial lyrics on a sunday

David X. Hugo — Sun, 06 Jun 2010 16:51:36 +0000

the ghosts of rocks tap your window
your friends are all dust in the air
you feel like some low-budget horror movie
trashed on a god-given sunday

and i’ve not got any pain left
and i might die but that’s okay
and this old movie called “youth”
well it gets old in it’s own way

the monkeys turn tricks on the boulevard
the leaves flap around in the sunlight
well painkillers make me feel alright
i guess that’s how i lie to get by sometimes
i guess that’s how i lie to get by alright.

technology, entertainment, design

David X. Hugo — Mon, 03 May 2010 08:27:53 +0000

i posit that all of this gas
and carbon nonsense is
the molecules within a falling
raindrop, electrons and
other scientific things popping
and fizzing as supernovas in
a black abyss. that chances are
we will be crushed on an umbrella,
that man will have spent all
of his time sitting in front of computer
screens, watching geniuses blabber,
positing about carbon and raindrops,
and plop,
right on some 9 year old’s hannah
montana umbrella. she’ll be livin’ like
us, ears closed, just like one big
epic irony. for feelings,
i guess.

my tombstone should include “wide-eyed” on it somewhere

David X. Hugo — Fri, 02 Apr 2010 05:52:33 +0000

i am wide eyed and high floating
above rivers of happy
philistines and i find that
everything is funny because
it’s all so very grave.
waves of irony end their journey
from: our massive sun-god
to: my face and
amplify my smile;
coloring all things in their
deep, deep comedy.

i smile and graze over the
earth with my eyes lightly
so as to not break a thing.

“humans are bad balloons”
i think and
look down
as i deflate
the crumbly breaky surface
giving way at the thought of
my come-down. sunshine
turning into heat
bird chirps
turning into traffic
smog
all things blackening and
crumbling as i come down.
i grab at the comedy but
cannot hold anything,
not even the air.

you are the only in the world

David X. Hugo — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 05:11:47 +0000

how alone, we poets would
be. if we were ever, truly,
the only in the world.
without a room-full to
shout things to.

poetry is so blooming selfish

Roger Mugs — Fri, 22 May 2009 13:07:33 +0000

i wrote into the void
words meant to create
feelings in you i myself
no longer wished to feel

hoping my vomit would
relieve my ache
and somehow what i rejected
would disgust you.
and as you cleaned yourself
of my refuse
i’d feel better knowing i was

no longer alone

Firsts

beighartman — Fri, 24 Apr 2009 04:18:37 +0000

Too often I lament the ideas
That have eluded my pen
But in mourning even one second
I miss what now is.
Take as much as I can.
Begin the very first chapter
Of my very first book.
The first is always the hardest, they say.
The first step,
The first day,
The first word,
The first sentence.

music

Roger Mugs — Sat, 14 Feb 2009 13:47:28 +0000

shocked at how oft
i forget the feelings
you arouse not
so much for what you
bring as the way
you choose to bring
it to my ears

whispering poetry in stereo
through crescendo mastered
and captured here in pocket
to make the grey skies less so

for things like this – an apology to historians

Roger Mugs — Tue, 20 Jan 2009 08:41:47 +0000

my lack of works surpassing
a single syllable seems consistently
to lead to poems with lines nearly
or at least visibly
unrelated
but the thoughts seem so tangible
when my fingers move and they spit themselves
out
before i manage to complete the thought
reminding me

i cannot think without these words
my thoughts do not form without me
speaking
farting
or writing

and button after button this
idea makes it into history.
something i’m writing
because i’m unable to simply
dwell on it

buttloads of poetry

Roger Mugs — Sun, 04 Jan 2009 09:11:02 +0000

1000 monkeys in a room
or rather 7 monkeys on a blog and
given long enough we were unable
to write, or even copy shakespeare
but dare i say we made great inroads

words are spilled these pages
you’ll have doubtful ever seen
in a finer journal

rhymes were composed and thoughts
spit out so few of us will ever share
with our mothers

and so it seemed fit as much as there was
and given from whence it came

the sieve and the sand
buttloads of poetry

(p.s. we published our third book – buttloads of poetry for less than $6.00. take home the brilliance)

slowing poetry

Roger Mugs — Thu, 01 Jan 2009 14:41:41 +0000

because our imaginations seem
to slow as the crowds take vacation
heading home to see mom and dad

hopefully the man in red and determine
to be resolute rather than allow our fingers
to slide somehow romatically over these
keys and lull our blog into blissful
beauty of heartfelt words

but then
blog is such an ugly word
its perhaps best we just act like
you’re reading this in a quality
glue bound journal

on why most poet’s brilliance isn’t discovered until after they die

Roger Mugs — Sat, 27 Sep 2008 00:20:27 +0000

our words as awesome as they may be
the pages we color with melody
nothing we do will ever hope to seem
as poetic as passing to death
most permanently

au wiedersehen

joshuagrace — Thu, 11 Sep 2008 04:01:33 +0000

Stormed shadows crawling

Across nearly frosted lawns,

The passage of time.

inspiration – once a necessity, now a mere luxury

Roger Mugs — Fri, 22 Aug 2008 13:50:13 +0000

mud
sweat
beers
the many words they help to conjure
rides and runs and
bitter cold
with blue sky – and snow
benches dedicated only be filled with you
- together
street lamps lonely and frozen
out of place
off the grid
mysteries
water balloons shot at distant trains
epic battles with snow balls
with fevers
overheating and overeating
the “phew!”
the proud
the in-betweens
and you

muse you are and muse you do
now life can be lived without you

because if your sole purpose in life is to produce cotton and you don’t – consider your life a failure

Roger Mugs — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 12:28:26 +0000

whether you are aware or not
my ability to write
epic poetry of love and life
has been reduced
to that annoying little whine
coming from the breaks of a ’57
chevy station wagon
stacked with a whole house’s
worth of furniture
mattress
desk
rocking chair and all
up to the top of the
cottonless cotton tree

and almost as sad

haiku about people writing poetry as comments

Tucker J. Collins — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 14:02:19 +0000

are you serious
writing poetry as if
comments aren’t ’nuff

things that made us famous, but you’re still nobody

Roger Mugs — Wed, 18 Jun 2008 14:30:36 +0000

all too many people
shy away from the topic of poo
out of fear of offending
their mothers reading
their works when they finally
publish their own book
someday

the sieve can address it all
from rape to cannibalism
when we want to say pants
we say trousers

if i say trunk, i mean both
the ass of the car
and a garment to cover your ass
whilst you swim

i have boldly gone where you
have not
the deep has never challenged me

hover, and hold
squatting will keep you from having
to squeeze

but dont fall in
or you’ll become famous
you nobody.

sometimes the reason your poetry sucks is the etymology (eat, my, logic – literally) of the words therein

Roger Mugs — Tue, 06 May 2008 22:09:44 +0000

billy the kid next door
rueben the sandwich i love
but my oh my i despise the rye
billy rueben makes me baby yellow

frank billy’s dad
incensed how i feel around him
why are stupid people so mean
frankincense fit for the king of kings

poe was dark and filled me with fear
tree three stories high i climbed as a child
till i fell and hit my tailbone but did
no lasting damage to my bottom
poetry ideas not prose but we dont know why

anyway

frank is totally incensed at the beautiful words
billy could use to write poetry about his awe-filled
thus making it beyond aweful
regular rye wrapped rueben