
               F U C K E D  U P  C O L L E G E  K I D S
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                - t h e  p o e t r y  v e n t u r e -
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        poetry is a means of looking into the soul. without the
        confines of grammar and paragraphs, rigid form, or even
        spelling (witness e.e. cummings), the poet can merely lay
        out the words that describe his purest intention, using
        pattern, rhyme, and structure to outline the intended
        effect. a poem can say in four lines what an essay cannot
        say in four hundred. therein lies the magic of poetry - written
        well it can be a timeless expression of the human condition,
        without the trappings of an over abundance of words.

        demonika

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        Interlude

        Lightning opened the room
        And cast shadows on the bodies
        Twisted in a naked embrace
        Tossing in the blue-black light
        Teeth gnashing tongue flicking
        White flesh colliding with sin
        Frenzied motion and gritty words
        Thunder closed the room

        demonika



        regarding music
        
        cool trance of unethical meditation
        sounds of silence and noise of art
        little box on the floor with reverb
        quiet me, soothe me, relax me, rape me

        dis



        right now

        Daggers hidden deep within her eyes,
        dodging direct contact,
        and avoiding the obvious.

        Loud music, rhythms blasting.
        Bass pounding, as a heart beat,
        a soul so shattered.

        Green pools with brownish gold swirls flowing down, around them.
        Fair skin, the softest at touch,
        and a look in her eyes that could kill, if she wanted.

        Running her tongue over her lips,
        a bright colour, full of life,
        a fever runs through her,
        that no one would ever know.

        Daggers hidden deep within her eyes,
        dodging direct contact,
        and avoiding the obvious.

        Jaded heart,
        shattered soul,
        murderous look,
        a spirit trapped,
        now gone from hatred ...
        And, left as dust.

        Me, Myself, and I.



        Amnesia

        Once filled with images,
        Words, colors.
        Now grey, desolate;
        Lingering scent --
        Dust?

        Fragments smeared,
        Blurred,
        Shattered.
        Wiped.

        Erased.

        Legion



        Can we say, non-sequitur?

        Next time you see the pander kissing find a strong bow to
        pluck their feather dust. Make the caravan an open house
        to fold the witty unknown. To love we give our devotion
        and passion. To lust we throw caution through the pole and
        make fidelity mark the raven's tongue. Oh you passionate fool
        we know the broken mirror. Oh you rapturous being who makes
        the fleet of evil dance around in decay. For tonight is the
        time of carrion men. The lips of death claps but once upon
        the mortal man so in love lies eternity. Come to gather straw
        for the gods. This mental block shall show no road block. For
        the time of love has become the moment of now. We can hold
        bells and whistles and know truth but love is forsaken by the
        immaculate and the witty. All round the angel's head with
        common ground.

        rage

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        E D I T O R S:   jericho@dim.com   &   demonika@dim.com
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	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  (soon)       
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        (c) Copyright. All poems copyright by original author.     
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        F O U N D E D:                         October 30, 1997


