Prime and Crunishment

[jayson]

i can hear your music going quite well with a lynch project. he can't use badalamenti all the time, right? not that they don't work magically together because, clearly, they do, but some of your stuff would work great in a lynch context.

[Frunobulax]

Working in the contextual constraints
My mind is as useless as a line of corrupted code.
No codices are my deus ex,
But rather a malacoda to see the end of
All my days.
Now the click click click click
Fills the room.
And myself aches in pulses of heat.
Wrists fractured from the crucifix nails of carpal tunnels.
Elbows expunged of sponge with years of misery.
And the data loses more information.

[Jean]

Little as bears like free verse, they can't help but appreciate the one above; especially the first four lines.

[sarajean]

Working in the contextual constraints
My mind is as useless as a line of corrupted code.
No codices are my deus ex,
But rather a malacoda to see the end of
All my days.
Now the click click click click
Fills the room.
And myself aches in pulses of heat.
Wrists fractured from the crucifix nails of carpal tunnels.
Elbows expunged of sponge with years of misery.
And the data loses more information.

excellent.

[Frunobulax]

Textit
Your supplementary innocence masks your poorly chosen tastes.
And the text you routinely shit out lacks substance.
Each new line of verse is a pile of fetid waste.
The ghosts of your supposed past cements...

Hope your line wears down
Hope your line wears down
Hope your mind tears down
Hope your brain breaks down

Every bill you post references your incapacity.
Yet still people are snowblind, piebald.
Maybe more than us three will see
Your ignorance and lack of style that callously scalds.

Hope your feet break down
Hope your line wears down
Hope your flag burns down
Hope your tears drip down

Whatever ideas you have, throw them away.
Your ideas of metaphor and theme appall me.
With all the bureaucracy of an executed one's stay,
There's nothing for my eyes to interpret or see.

Hope your drives corrupt and decimate down.
Hope your bitrate drops down.
Hope your flag burns down.
Hope your line wears down.
God, I hope you calm down,
God I hope you're struck down.
God, I hope you're numbed down.
God I hope you vanish now.

[sarajean]

[jayson]

another excellent addition to the collection fruno

[Frunobulax]

Ululations
Glossolalia mocks my ever present mind,
Twisting my words into knots of needlessness.
Explosions puncture my eardrums,
Creating a machiatto of blood in my head.
As my eyes burn with the thousand rays of a sun's anger,
My tongue flails like a drowning fish.
The clever ululations hide my lack of ability.
This is no way to live.
I wish I were dead, but then no use for me could be found.
I wanna live. I want to live. I need to live so bad.
And all was well.
And all is well.

[Jean]

Much as bears dislike free verse (I really must find a hieroglyph for this introduction), the last lines contrasted with the rest created that true poetic tension that touches so deeply...

[Frunobulax]

Thanks, Jean. Your comments carry weight!
//
Gravitational Qualms
Hurdling to a ball of molten
I feel heat on my skin
Breath bated, shaken,
Chances of infinity are thin.
Cast off thee disguise!
Avert the eyes.
And stare at the unfolding heptagonal shape.
Cash in all the riches you've raped.
Feel the clever shifting heat,
As you stand helpless on a ball of rock.
Terra firma's gentle contact with your feet
Only exists because of the gravitational qualms that your mind may block.

[Jean]

and my reward came immediately!

Fruno's real rhyming poem! Fruno's real rhyming poem!!!

Few things can make a bear that happy.

Fruno, you've been developing some dolent fragility that make your poems resonate with bears' soul almost to the point of becoming unendurable... I am going to learn this one by heart, like I did all your previous poems (what I call poems, anyway) - among other reasons, because then such lines as

Chances of infinity are thin

won't come unexpected and catch me off guard. I know that I am becoming soft, and poetry does make me cry more often than it used to when I was younger, but soft or hard, I am definitely not becoming more tolerant or ready to cry over bad, mediocre, or passably good poems. Which means yours are great - well, yes, I know it's a personal opinion, but I am going to stand by it.

[sarajean]

fruno is quite possibly my favourite poet.

[Jean]

Among those writing in English, my favorite poet remains Bob Dylan... but then it's Kipling, Poe, Tennyson, and Fruno, not necessarily in order specified.

[flaggwalkstheline]

Among those writing in English, my favorite poet remains Bob Dylan... but then it's Kipling, Poe, Tennyson, and Fruno, not necessarily in order specified.

fruno's pretty good, no doubt, though my favorite poet of all time remains Gregory Corso

[sarajean]

sheesh. not asking for a debate or other favourites, just saying that fruno happens to be mine.

[Frunobulax]

I have a bunch of seeds for poems in my head right now, but (as with every other time) life is taking up free time I can spend here. As always I make my appearances, but will be scarcer than in the older days. But the basic ideas for Ululations and Gravitational Qualms are part of a selection of about 30 ideas in my head just floating around. Dunno when the others will be up, but in due time they'll be seen.

[Jean]

sheesh. not asking for a debate or other favourites, just saying that fruno happens to be mine.

I brought them up on purpose, though. You see, Dylan, Kipling, Poe, and Tennyson seem each so big, and at the same time so different, that looking at the four of them it appears that they kinda shared the universe between them, and there’s no more angle that would be at the same time totally different from those four, and as big as they are. And then comes Fruno and finds this new angle without losing in greatness.

[Frunobulax]

In Somber Prose
In somber prose, I,
The author of such works,
Can only hope to try
To convey my lingual hypnic jerks.
In extended meaning and meter
I have tried to sum up my mind.
In metaphor and ripoff
I have tried to sum up thoughts of this kind.
I do not write originally,
But as an amalgam of many.
I am Legion.

[flaggwalkstheline]

oooo mysterious

i like it

[Frunobulax]

Repose
Sitting down by the carport
The memories flooded my mind.
Time is so short,
So my words were something I was unable to find.
Oil stained pasts,
Asphalt regrets,
Pavement lined casts,
Machine bored bets,
All was revealed in a sea of steel.
Wading out in the pool,
My past was shown rapidly:
Gentle repose on a stool,
Phone calls aborted hurriedly.
Nil regret and forward thought,
Time removed in a flash.
Blood leaks from my head, my legs are caught,
Beneath an old man's heap of trash.
Ribs stick my liver and lungs,
Longinus spears of calcification.
O! my final songs have been sung,
As my brain swells with rigid mortification.
Now the light dims, the bright bulb of the sun died.
All I hear are screams of terror.
My eyes are marred by bile, lest I cried,
To a terrible death's bearer.
All will be gentle,
All will be sweet,
When crushed by tonnes of metal
In the middle of the street.

[Frunobulax]

OK, so I'm sure that Jean will appreciate this following piece of text from me.

How do I write my prosems? Well, I often only have the first line solidified. I then either sit in complete silence or with loud music (IE volume all the way up, not loud as in shit like metal, although Mastodon and Aborted have led to good works), actively shut off my thinking processes for writing, then let my fingers flow. Basically what you see is the first AND final draft. I choose not to retool my own words.

[Jean]

[Frunobulax]

Same as Zero
I stopped looking in my life for the things that are unanswerable.
So I sat on a stone, begging to the open sky to find my heart.
I stopped gazing at the streetlights until the halogen became unbearable.
So I sat in omphaloskepsis, begging for the sodium lights to find my heart.

Looping upon myself, a circular statistician
A methodology for the alone.
Respooling my thought processes, my internal electrician
Is asleep at the job - he's no skill to hone.

I stopped looking for love in my life, thinking about warmth.
But it tracked me down in the form of friends.
I stopped looking for love in my head, knowing I am cold.
So it came to me soft and sweet, and I hold it to never lend.
I stopped looking for heat, focusing on the sworn.
Decisions never rash, always bold, lessons old.

My front and back surrounded by a shield of invisible care.
I am at ease, resting in utter happiness.
The number of times I have to worry now are the same as zero.

[Frunobulax]

Caloric
Consumed as a communion wafer
The rigidity of your exclamations masks all.
All that I see is 8th grade level rants
And attempts at Ginsberg.
Everything is an empty snack.
Caloric so as to leave false contentment.
The sugary floss of the prose you shit out
Leaves a terrible frost in the mouth.
The masses consume mindlessly,
Not realizing how terrible all you do is.
Caloric so as to fatten into abominations.

[sarajean]

Caloric
Consumed as a communion wafer
The rigidity of your exclamations masks all.
All that I see is 8th grade level rants
And attempts at Ginsberg.
Everything is an empty snack.
Caloric so as to leave false contentment.
The sugary floss of the prose you shit out
Leaves a terrible frost in the mouth.
The masses consume mindlessly,
Not realizing how terrible all you do is.
Caloric so as to fatten into abominations.