hummingwolf (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hummingwolf) wrote2005-09-05 02:26 pm
hummingwolf) wrote2005-09-05 02:26 pm
Entry tags:
MegaPoems
Some poetry generated today by my copy of MegaHAL. Entirely unrelated to current events.
Into the morning
waving to me when i take a lot to you-know-who might be mars,
and i would be to her
to live with you, ignoble paunch, abhorrent in my very own bed,
the mossy fountains, and the hounds....
september in the experience of all this
i guess i had mastery;
to bake a potato,
three kittens on their own.
and i simply won't be easy, accustomed to these dancers in their eyes the fairies live.... And see,
it seemed to think of eggs.
babies' skeletons grow.
and he don't like sundays and he looked down through the spattered water in the funeral dance,
sucking the honey of summer
into your room, and pick you up,
yeah, the summer's gone
but i--was twice as high as possible.
bake for 70 to 80 minutes or until potatoes are done.
~~~~~
I'm getting splinters
just made me shiver
with your thirty years?
seeing you last week i went down to electric avenue
and twined themselves among the movers and shakers. You'll shake
a spider weaves its web.
how the hell do we scream at the coiling darkness,
almost for consolation, if the harvest wine?
~~~~~
The morning glory
wraps the ribs of the bedroom door.
it's mine.
i look to the reeds.
faint cricket in the sun
to suffer what you had let me rest in peace
they're luckiest who know in what age it came from,
and there's not a return
and the god of the spray from the bards sublime,
and the wind cuts cold
furnished room where they sold sweet lavender
("only a penny earned.
~~~~~
Once from a cheap pair of hard-boiled shears;
they climbed as quickly, for the night, with my eyes, my shoes,
it stares at me, so pure, so sad,
and sun succeeds to sun,
broods in her safe room, looking out of him they knew--
i cannot put my trumpet, with its sorrowing names,
their mimic war, from old majestic things.
are you going for the pine needles hustle down
a place, a time gone out and in joy
that makes the orchards magic.
they hear in the breeze,
querulous catbird, woodpecker drummer,
cawing of crows high over the city,
with arms about each other around the moon, the harvest moon has come,
his kids were his delight, and physics his profession;
now that the sky bowl,
talking like pink parrots,
and his good is evil spoken.
so many people you just wonder, who's for lunch today?
is it impossible for man,
the cup of coffee.
~~~~~
Now the goose that lays the golden light;
yet you turned a back-somersault in at the wharf.
tugging at the side of the crickets,
and long green tangled hair.
~~~~~
Up on the narrowed
streets of rain on the day of school
and spoke the language of the milkweed
comes the wind
in german,
and enter the sea and our souls
are in headlong retreat because
larger creatures are hungry.
~~~~~
No. We have surmounted guilt. It's quite
quite adorable princess
he knew, ere he forsook the starry air
but ah! She dreams not now; dream thou!
for that alone
in your expensive coke and when
when the bright green apples,
hanging on this stony planet that we farm.
the knockout bomb from the clouds
sights the luminous eyes of the owl.
~~~~~
Autumn wind:
everything i see
and now the years of late summer,
an ore-cell.
he said, "we haven't had that spirit here since wednesday morning,
close-twisted, neat-lettered, and flat;
it is a baker.
he bangs his head up and out
of the autumn sky.
through the fire
drown sorrows
and an old saloon in a vague way: no disappointments
on the riverbed, nothing
but to us, who aren't big, they are bitter.
~~~~~
Sunset, a bonfire, roars in my windows!
then you shall waste and wane;
but shapes shall drop from the east
scares muslin souls--away--
if broadcloth hearts are constantly breaking, i hear,
and my thoughts fly off to sparta and sandy pylos,
there ain't no cure,
there they weep and wail and wander,
upstairs, downstairs, and in me and her,
nevertheless she sank and, stiffening, disappeared.
back you go, into your crib.
the road was a boy whose name was jim;
his voice opens,
closes,
on the sawmill turret by the brooks,
the lantern of a boy, the thud of a gentle face,
slander my name
no matter how far
could be placed in a jar by the sea
floating on a baking sheet.
brush the olive trees
ruffling their leaves--and i will yield to the slopes--
nay, i wished not to be, as a man who's bought fruit and vegetables for his chosen country, state, and city and town;
the spirit bloweth and is the snow?
Into the morning
waving to me when i take a lot to you-know-who might be mars,
and i would be to her
to live with you, ignoble paunch, abhorrent in my very own bed,
the mossy fountains, and the hounds....
september in the experience of all this
i guess i had mastery;
to bake a potato,
three kittens on their own.
and i simply won't be easy, accustomed to these dancers in their eyes the fairies live.... And see,
it seemed to think of eggs.
babies' skeletons grow.
and he don't like sundays and he looked down through the spattered water in the funeral dance,
sucking the honey of summer
into your room, and pick you up,
yeah, the summer's gone
but i--was twice as high as possible.
bake for 70 to 80 minutes or until potatoes are done.
~~~~~
I'm getting splinters
just made me shiver
with your thirty years?
seeing you last week i went down to electric avenue
and twined themselves among the movers and shakers. You'll shake
a spider weaves its web.
how the hell do we scream at the coiling darkness,
almost for consolation, if the harvest wine?
~~~~~
The morning glory
wraps the ribs of the bedroom door.
it's mine.
i look to the reeds.
faint cricket in the sun
to suffer what you had let me rest in peace
they're luckiest who know in what age it came from,
and there's not a return
and the god of the spray from the bards sublime,
and the wind cuts cold
furnished room where they sold sweet lavender
("only a penny earned.
~~~~~
Once from a cheap pair of hard-boiled shears;
they climbed as quickly, for the night, with my eyes, my shoes,
it stares at me, so pure, so sad,
and sun succeeds to sun,
broods in her safe room, looking out of him they knew--
i cannot put my trumpet, with its sorrowing names,
their mimic war, from old majestic things.
are you going for the pine needles hustle down
a place, a time gone out and in joy
that makes the orchards magic.
they hear in the breeze,
querulous catbird, woodpecker drummer,
cawing of crows high over the city,
with arms about each other around the moon, the harvest moon has come,
his kids were his delight, and physics his profession;
now that the sky bowl,
talking like pink parrots,
and his good is evil spoken.
so many people you just wonder, who's for lunch today?
is it impossible for man,
the cup of coffee.
~~~~~
Now the goose that lays the golden light;
yet you turned a back-somersault in at the wharf.
tugging at the side of the crickets,
and long green tangled hair.
~~~~~
Up on the narrowed
streets of rain on the day of school
and spoke the language of the milkweed
comes the wind
in german,
and enter the sea and our souls
are in headlong retreat because
larger creatures are hungry.
~~~~~
No. We have surmounted guilt. It's quite
quite adorable princess
he knew, ere he forsook the starry air
but ah! She dreams not now; dream thou!
for that alone
in your expensive coke and when
when the bright green apples,
hanging on this stony planet that we farm.
the knockout bomb from the clouds
sights the luminous eyes of the owl.
~~~~~
Autumn wind:
everything i see
and now the years of late summer,
an ore-cell.
he said, "we haven't had that spirit here since wednesday morning,
close-twisted, neat-lettered, and flat;
it is a baker.
he bangs his head up and out
of the autumn sky.
through the fire
drown sorrows
and an old saloon in a vague way: no disappointments
on the riverbed, nothing
but to us, who aren't big, they are bitter.
~~~~~
Sunset, a bonfire, roars in my windows!
then you shall waste and wane;
but shapes shall drop from the east
scares muslin souls--away--
if broadcloth hearts are constantly breaking, i hear,
and my thoughts fly off to sparta and sandy pylos,
there ain't no cure,
there they weep and wail and wander,
upstairs, downstairs, and in me and her,
nevertheless she sank and, stiffening, disappeared.
back you go, into your crib.
the road was a boy whose name was jim;
his voice opens,
closes,
on the sawmill turret by the brooks,
the lantern of a boy, the thud of a gentle face,
slander my name
no matter how far
could be placed in a jar by the sea
floating on a baking sheet.
brush the olive trees
ruffling their leaves--and i will yield to the slopes--
nay, i wished not to be, as a man who's bought fruit and vegetables for his chosen country, state, and city and town;
the spirit bloweth and is the snow?