
               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 art, art is emotion. if you can look at art
        and get directly into the mental state of it's creator, 
	then you have found true art. you should be able to 
	feel everything they were feeling, feeling it as they 
	were. this is what we seek for. to show ourselves to 
	the world, to say "this is me, and this is how I am." 
	you can say it in a poem, in a picture, in music, in 
	anything. as long as the point you are trying to make 
	is so strong that there is no denying its outcome. when 
	that happens you have made something truly worth 
	observing, truly worth spending the time to recognize.

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        HATE

        I hate that when I voice my opinion
        I am not taken as seriously as the jock boy next to me.
        I hate that one out of every four men is a rapist.
        I hate labels like slut, cunt, dyke and bitch oppressing us further.
        I hate that we are all out to hurt each other and let envy rule
          our lives.
        I hate that when we hang out together it's assumed we've gone to
          pick up guys.
        I hate that are IQ is not half as important as our bra size.
        I hate the stereotypes we have conformed to.
        I hate the rivalry that is everlasting in our community.
        I hate it when they tell not to bother because
        I'm just some feeble little girl.
        I hate that while walking through a club some guy thought he had
          the right to touch my breast.
        I hate that I am ashamed of my body.
        I hate what the "leaders" of this country have done to us.
        I hate that we are taught to believe masturbating is evil.
        I hate their laws that place restrictions on me and my body
        I hate that when my friend got drunk last night,
          some jerk took advantage of her.
        I hate the small voice inside me,
          that whispered "she deserved it".



        From the Ambush

        Here I am,
        The last night out bush - relief?.
        It's warm and dry.
        The cicadas have just retreated from their daily squawl.
        I lay trackside, alongside Luke, 
        an ambush awaiting - blood and death.
        Behind is the moon,
        above fly the planes - silently,
        overseeing and awaiting  the cracks, flashing and flames.

        Where have you been? Speak soon.

        Dave



        MOIST DARKNESS

        shared from generation one to infinity,
        an ordinary smile shackled to his lips
             and footsteps in his eyes
                  more earth to unearth
                  more dirt to clean
             with his hope for soapy dreams

        virgin color raped from his face
        leaving dignity under his fingernails
             and shame in his voice
                  more direction to direct
                  more heels to wound
             with his penchant for naive trails

        timid fascination with emoting female onlookers
        as he photographs bleeding diamonds for magazines
             and loneliness in his heart
                  more lies to lay down with
                  more disappointment to savor
             with his taste for shadow kisses   


        Indiana Poet    March 3, 1998



        Alone with the night, 
        Alone with your sight,
        Your life passes you by,
        A flash, A moment in disguise,
        Distilled from thought, 
        Caught by fear, curious you drear,
        What will happen next,
        A test, to evaluate your soul,
        A chance missed, your last kiss.

        Lonely for a friend,
        Lonely for a when,
        Your life watches the sky,
        A flash, A moment with surprise,
        Instilled in time,
        Caught by lights, gladly you sight,
        A familiar face forever known,
        A person loved as home,
        A chance kissed, it was all your own.

        Sadia



        Don't Call Me Sweetheart        

        When you know nothing of me,
        except something that you think you see,
        if you call me 'sweetheart',
        you may find yourself swept out to sea.

        Don't call me sweetheart.

        Things are said, and feelings expressed,
        a listening ear, or a shoulder to lean on,
        if you call me 'sweetheart',
        you may find yourself gone.

        Don't call me sweetheart.

        There are those that are close,
        and will call me what they will,
        if you call me 'sweetheart'
        you may find yourself with a huge bill.

        Don't call me sweetheart.

        A term of endearment, one that I use to never live without,
        now all I want to do is scream, when I hear you say that term.
        If you call me 'sweetheart' or sweety,
        you may find yourself locked in a dorm.

        Don't call me sweetheart.

        Something so enduring and loving,
        I don't want to be mentioned, 
        if it were up to me, I'd cringe and walk away.
        For so long I was called such things,
        I wish for nothing, anymore.

        Don't call me sweetheart.

        I won't start your house on fire,
        or throw up your covers and ruffle your feathers,
        but I will not smile and nod, wishing for more.
        So just as long as you remember ...

        Don't call me sweetheart.

        If you feel you can call me such a thing,
        then think again and turn the other way,
        unless you are someone that will stay,
        and I feel the same way.

        Don't call me sweetheart.

        It brings too much up,
        of things you'd rather not know,
        so instead of pulling of us out to sea,
        just let me be ...

        and don't call me sweetheart.

        (A bitter twist of a poem, on an extremity of small reality.)

        -Me, Myself, and I.     03/09/98



        11-8-97

           imperfect beauty. candle slightly askew
        liquidvox flows freely in other world
           six hours of heaven for seven hours of hell
        one will linger, a fleeting glimpse into
           the funnel of soul.


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        E D I T O R S:   jericho@dim.com   &   demonika@dim.com
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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






