215 lines
7.1 KiB
Plaintext
215 lines
7.1 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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poetry is art, art is emotion. if you can look at art
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and get directly into the mental state of it's creator,
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then you have found true art. you should be able to
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feel everything they were feeling, feeling it as they
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were. this is what we seek for. to show ourselves to
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the world, to say "this is me, and this is how I am."
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you can say it in a poem, in a picture, in music, in
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anything. as long as the point you are trying to make
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is so strong that there is no denying its outcome. when
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that happens you have made something truly worth
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observing, truly worth spending the time to recognize.
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HATE
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I hate that when I voice my opinion
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I am not taken as seriously as the jock boy next to me.
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I hate that one out of every four men is a rapist.
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I hate labels like slut, cunt, dyke and bitch oppressing us further.
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I hate that we are all out to hurt each other and let envy rule
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our lives.
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I hate that when we hang out together it's assumed we've gone to
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pick up guys.
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I hate that are IQ is not half as important as our bra size.
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I hate the stereotypes we have conformed to.
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I hate the rivalry that is everlasting in our community.
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I hate it when they tell not to bother because
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I'm just some feeble little girl.
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I hate that while walking through a club some guy thought he had
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the right to touch my breast.
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I hate that I am ashamed of my body.
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I hate what the "leaders" of this country have done to us.
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I hate that we are taught to believe masturbating is evil.
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I hate their laws that place restrictions on me and my body
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I hate that when my friend got drunk last night,
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some jerk took advantage of her.
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I hate the small voice inside me,
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that whispered "she deserved it".
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From the Ambush
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Here I am,
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The last night out bush - relief?.
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It's warm and dry.
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The cicadas have just retreated from their daily squawl.
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I lay trackside, alongside Luke,
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an ambush awaiting - blood and death.
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Behind is the moon,
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above fly the planes - silently,
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overseeing and awaiting the cracks, flashing and flames.
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Where have you been? Speak soon.
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Dave
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MOIST DARKNESS
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shared from generation one to infinity,
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an ordinary smile shackled to his lips
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and footsteps in his eyes
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more earth to unearth
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more dirt to clean
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with his hope for soapy dreams
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virgin color raped from his face
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leaving dignity under his fingernails
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and shame in his voice
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more direction to direct
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more heels to wound
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with his penchant for naive trails
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timid fascination with emoting female onlookers
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as he photographs bleeding diamonds for magazines
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and loneliness in his heart
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more lies to lay down with
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more disappointment to savor
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with his taste for shadow kisses
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Indiana Poet March 3, 1998
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Alone with the night,
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Alone with your sight,
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Your life passes you by,
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A flash, A moment in disguise,
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Distilled from thought,
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Caught by fear, curious you drear,
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What will happen next,
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A test, to evaluate your soul,
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A chance missed, your last kiss.
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Lonely for a friend,
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Lonely for a when,
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Your life watches the sky,
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A flash, A moment with surprise,
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Instilled in time,
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Caught by lights, gladly you sight,
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A familiar face forever known,
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A person loved as home,
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A chance kissed, it was all your own.
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Sadia
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Don't Call Me Sweetheart
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When you know nothing of me,
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except something that you think you see,
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if you call me 'sweetheart',
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you may find yourself swept out to sea.
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Don't call me sweetheart.
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Things are said, and feelings expressed,
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a listening ear, or a shoulder to lean on,
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if you call me 'sweetheart',
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you may find yourself gone.
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Don't call me sweetheart.
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There are those that are close,
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and will call me what they will,
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if you call me 'sweetheart'
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you may find yourself with a huge bill.
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Don't call me sweetheart.
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A term of endearment, one that I use to never live without,
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now all I want to do is scream, when I hear you say that term.
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If you call me 'sweetheart' or sweety,
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you may find yourself locked in a dorm.
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Don't call me sweetheart.
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Something so enduring and loving,
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I don't want to be mentioned,
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if it were up to me, I'd cringe and walk away.
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For so long I was called such things,
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I wish for nothing, anymore.
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Don't call me sweetheart.
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I won't start your house on fire,
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or throw up your covers and ruffle your feathers,
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but I will not smile and nod, wishing for more.
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So just as long as you remember ...
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Don't call me sweetheart.
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If you feel you can call me such a thing,
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then think again and turn the other way,
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unless you are someone that will stay,
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and I feel the same way.
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Don't call me sweetheart.
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It brings too much up,
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of things you'd rather not know,
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so instead of pulling of us out to sea,
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just let me be ...
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and don't call me sweetheart.
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(A bitter twist of a poem, on an extremity of small reality.)
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-Me, Myself, and I. 03/09/98
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11-8-97
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imperfect beauty. candle slightly askew
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liquidvox flows freely in other world
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six hours of heaven for seven hours of hell
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one will linger, a fleeting glimpse into
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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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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 poems copyright by original author.
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F O U N D E D: October 30, 1997
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