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Evolved Chao
Evolved Chao
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Post by strawberry-boyfriend » Mon Jul 04, 2016 9:31 pm

In the past year of my studies I was asked to compose poetry to workshop with other students and my professor as part of a course on creative writing and poetry. While I produced nothing I would be comfortable with sharing as far as prose goes, I wanted to share some poetry!

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Dogs hunt in battalions and units and squadrons,
with black fur slicked back like oil from the rain,
where they wait in restless forests, wait til they can see the whites
in the eyes of their prey, wait to shoot, wait
to dart forward as if it were their last supper,
wait til the hunting party is surrounding something,
be it bigger or smaller than them, stronger or meeker,
wherein they no longer wait, but pounce, and tear into them.

Dogs know how to attack, how to torment their prey,
and they know what limbs to tear and what veins to pop,
they know just how to eat away their paws with bloodied incisors if trapped,
or how to gnaw off their tongues to stay quiet,
or how to lap up their own piss in case of dehydration,
or how to assert dominance over one another,
so that there will always be an alpha male and a top dog,
because dogs will be dogs, and nodog worries.

Dogs come and go, and that is something all dogs know,
something all dogs have grown into, something they accept
but can’t comprehend, a case where something bigger or smaller
comes about to be something of a challenge,
something of a difficulty, something of a disaster.

Dogs have excellent smell and excellent hearing, but their
vision is black and white, and the senses they become accustomed
to while travelling in their battalions and units and squadrons
are nothing anydog would want to remember or acclimate to,
stenches of blood and decay and violence and rain,
sounds of howls and screams and cries of pain,
sights of fallen dogs, empty meals, fallen prey.

Dogs have funny names and funny breeds, like
what is a cocker spaniel named Dick to a labrador named Harry,
why do they fall in line to a dachshund named Tom,
and why is it when they die they’re all named John?

Dogs are man’s best friend.

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Closer To You 
I was never closer to you than in the summer spent lying down, facing each other
in the room that I called mine, in the bed we shared on more than one occasion
with the air condition blowing in our faces, and blankets covering our bodies,
and our legs interlocked, and our fingers intertwined, and our heads touching.

I was never closer to you than in the summer spent with sparsely lit candle light
on evenings called date night, where in we would dine out when we could afford,
or go to mostly empty theatres for cheaper affairs, or in quiet and restful parks,
where we could escape into hushed corners of trees and escape into one another.

I was never closer to you than in the summer spent on bicycles on emptied roads,
or in the sedan in back lots and back roads, or in the pools in our backyards,
where we would swim in later hours when nobody else would bother, just to
be together a little longer, before the summer ended, before the end of twilight.

I was never closer to you than in the summer, 
and I hope fall and winter and spring end soon.

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A couple of boxes stacked on top of one another appear downstairs,
with stamps on the side that say “Fragile; Please Handle With Care”.
But they are all empty, beginning to smell like rotten cardboard,
they must have been from when my parents were known to hoard,
    And I decide to build with the boxes that I see down there.

They are broken up into smaller bits, and into their sides I tear
tiny holes as if they were windows, so that I can protect from fears
and keep a close watch for anyone who appears to assault my moor,
    A couple of boxes stacked on top of one another.

There is no postage on the sides of these boxes, but the edges show wear,
which sells the idea that this box castle is mine to build up and repair,
so I can give these boxes purpose again. I can use musty cardboard
like this for so much more, I can rule a kingdom here, that no one ignores,
that no one forgets or leaves in the basement alone with nothing but here,
    A couple of boxes stacked on top of one another.

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I Never Gave My Body Slack
I made myself a list today
Of what I hate on my body.
It mostly consists of some myths
I’m ashamed of, and in loathe with.

The list begins like this: my nose,
which is a bit long; also my toes,
which are gnarled; my waist, my pith,
I’m ashamed of, and in loathe with.

It continues like: my fat deposits;
my limbering limbs/ligaments;
my hands that can harm, so therewith
I’m ashamed of, and in loathe with.

More things that I know: my pale skin,
cracked with black pores and cut-marks thin;
and then there’s my body hair, which
I’m ashamed of, and in loathe with.

I never gave my body slack.
I never had to watch my back,
because all myself I dismiss,
I’m ashamed of, and in loathe with.

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There is something caustic in your way.
You accost me for the way I move, and
for how I speak and for when I do, because
you kick and shout and berate the words that
I try to write for you. You call me a fool
And I am forever cautious in your presence
Because I don’t feel good enough to leave
Because I begin to agree with your thinking,
I begin to belittle myself for you when you’re
not around, not present, as to never miss a beat-
-ing that I would’ve received verbally anyway.
~ Strawberry
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Chaos Chao
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Re: strawberry-poetry

Post by cinnamonstyx » Mon Jul 18, 2016 12:36 am

thnx team
eboy's seme