125 lines
4.7 KiB
Plaintext
125 lines
4.7 KiB
Plaintext
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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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welcome to the first release of F.U.C.K.'s poetry venture.
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as more submissions for the zine come in, the more poetry
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i see. because of the structure of the base zine, i felt
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a separate series would be in order. as you all know,
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demonika has been a big contributor to the zine, and her
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files are more poetic overall. this lead me to solicit
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her help in the new venture.
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there are no set boundaries for this part of the zine.
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we only look for poems that express the feelings of the
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author, and do not look for any specific topic. in fact,
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poems about unconventional topics are especially welcome.
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as always, feedback (good or bad) is welcome. let us know
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what you think so that we may improve the quality as
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needed. in the mean time...
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magnetic poetry i.
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in his raw garden dreams
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delicious poetry is less
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a gifted language than an
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urge essential to him.
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if he produced a whisper of beauty,
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could he rip out the
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frantic void in his breast?
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demonika
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regarding inner turmoil
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Silenced pain my warmth at night,
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while in my mind a raging fight,
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the longing to take a final breath
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and slip into awaiting death.
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Chilling coldness burns my fingers,
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emotional scars can only linger,
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Confusion and chaos wrap around me
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seemingly eternal will it be
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one thing in my life keeps me sane,
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on my warm face a refreshing rain.
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dis 1995
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A weight of gold, laid upon my head.
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A pound of hatred, and a pinch of spite,
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add a twist of fate, and a hint of spice,
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and there you have, the piece upon my body.
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Bronzing powder awaits, somewhere,
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as I think to live on.
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Paying a price, for something that I never did,
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and would never do again.
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Making a place, in this hellish hole,
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for me, myself and I.
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To hide and make do, with what life I had lived.
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A coffin once picked out,
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lies open, just for me.
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A pint of boiling gold, a pound of hatred,
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a pinch of spite.
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Mix and stir, and there you have,
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the makings of this tortured soul.
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Add a twist of fate, and a hint of spice,
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and there you have, the piece upon my head,
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that weighs me down, and pushes me further
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down, then hells basement.
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For, here I am, burning and dying,
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for something I never dreamt of doing.
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kamira October 21st, 1997
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"I'm not as messed up as I want to be." - They Might be Giants
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Why is the world so broken? Who put the dead birds so
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high in the tree? Can you catch the dust so diluted in the
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air? Can you kiss the cheek of Mother Nature then swear you
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never cared? It rains milk on Sunday afternoon, and orange
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juice in the morning. Who has the keys to the kingdom, and
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who touched the silk bread bring hanging to the wind? It is
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too bad the silver lined sky has been plastered with red brink.
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It is too bad that the rats under our rugs are mechanical in
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nature. For if the world has been a better place we would all
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still be alive, instead of being eaten from the inside out.
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rage-303
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E D I T O R S: jericho@dim.com & demonika@dim.com
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to receive new issues via e-mail, send mail to
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jericho@dimensional.com with "subscribe poetry". if
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you do not have FTP access and would like back issues,
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send a list of missing issues and they will be sent.
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A V A I L A B I L I T Y:
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AnonFTP: FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK/poetry
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WWW: http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho
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(c) Copyright. All files copyright by original author.
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F O U N D E D: October 30, 1997
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