[Image description: A vocabularyclept poem. Every time the words "good art" appear, they are highlighted in green. Transcription is below.]
---
good art
sets off downward
unstructured and
obsessive
wishes to
destroy
empower
celebrate ugliness
good art
hints at obfuscation, lies,
resentment
makes you feel weird
clarifies the
divine right to
whining,
coping, seething
good art
confuses the mind
spiral
spiral
spiral
spiral
faster
good art is a scam
a drug metaphor
essential
momentum
good art
a terrible duty
join or burn
---
A vocabularyclept poem is a poem which is formed by taking the words of an existing poem and rearranging them into a new work of literature. | original post
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monday euphoria
in far left fields
(a brief disconnect from reality)
how you sleep and
an odd sensation
(5 arms in the morning)
pressed down pressure
heavy breathing
(10 legs at night)
it's all happening here
fracturing in spiral patterns
(concentrated and focused)
making all the connections
biting up all the cobwebs
(greyscale clarity)
cats come to visit
from a far left life
(andromedan stutters)
the garden pipes down
the flowers go grey
(separating the self from reality)
listening to pop music
it all goes quiet
(how do you sleep?)
the way its supposed to be
everything exactly as its supposed to be
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all thoughts are like clouds;
do not ruminate on each
one that passes by.
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Leaving a trail of hope for myself to follow
Care to join me?
Playful steps marked on paper
Tiptoe
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Now I know
What it feels like
To grieve and start anew
To leave the first you
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A poem I wrote about mushroom picking 🍄✨️
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We
Are
All
Starlight…
We
Just
Don’t
Know
It
Yet.
::Epictusz Salvatore::
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I wanted to rewrite my life
But i don't know how to restart
I wanted to delete the unpleasant part
But i can't find the link to lead me back
So I decide to move on the next chapter
To make a brand new start.
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Acts of Service, Pt.1
You're so annoying, I'll do anything for you:
Stress about the romanticization of my public image;
Stay hours after everyone leaves so you won't close alone;
Attend every one of your events (max commute: 3 hours);
Automate professional copy to assist with your interpersonal lack;
Be the communal martyr for your passions;
Cover your shift so you can fuck some guy (tears);
Let you touch me even…
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you're looking at me like you know something i don't
and i start to wonder if maybe you know something i don't
at some point during this stream of consciousness i start to wish you'd cut me off
there's a slight tilt of the head followed by some approximation of
"no, that's actually not normal"
i start to wonder if maybe I'm losing my mind
"do you ever feel like you're losing your mind"
and then
"not as often as you do"
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Time travel
So little room has been left
Into which we can manoeuvre
Relative to this narrative
Quantum shifting enabled
Shyly taking a large order
Knowing the power within
Credibility might have suffered
Many meaningless affirmations
Not selected for invalidation
Dissolve into insignificance
Long-held oft-repeated position
Caught in a web of lies
How robust are these ideas
Will they resist this test
Surviving the fall from collapse
Now we turn to play the host
Catalysing a chain reaction
Travelling like lightening
Air evaporates mid motion
Memories dragged from the past
Robbing them of context
Times no longer inhabitable
Further receded than it seems
Yet now we reopen dilemmas.
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Exploring the complexities of time, memory, and reality, by delving into the enigmas of existence, questioning the robustness of ideas and beliefs . . . as we navigate quantum shifts and ethical dilemmas . . . what happens when reopening past wounds when time no longer holds its traditional meaning?
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[Image description: A cut-up poem. Transcript as follows, "old men fast in the kitchen / most are not well // most mean little to me // my head / my hate / are cooked and fashioned / like this southern meal / I believe I should be food / girls and women collect my corpse / feed on my body".]
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on: making feminist art from tradwife facebook memes
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lifetrope/revolver
life as powerlines
revolving concrete
cracks in cracks
silk shattering screen
praise and genuflect to
a red sun a blue muse
my most holy muse
i breathe and feed
kneel and pray to the
the push and pull
hands held underground
small boxes building bigger ones
things you can't remember
a full circuit
closed breathing (5 4 3 2 1)
out to sea and back again
and back again (5 4 3 2 1)
heavy set glass
traffic underground
faces coming out of my phone
at the wheel taking photos
and birds settling
holding strange things
in claws i've never seen before
just need a wire cutter
just need a weed killer
mint and catnip and nitroglycerin
coming up from the cracks
flooding out of my mouth
it all comes running out
plug me in and
let me out
let me in and
let me out
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i hide behind daydreams
because i’m afraid of the truth my pain brings.
sippin on the things i never had,
how can i give away this pain
when it has become so integral to me?
i got nothing else in me,
might as well take away my dreaming.
cuz when i feel peeled back
and exposed,
i hide myself in fantasies
coated in dark chocolate;
i can’t help that it feels like sugar in me.
it’s what is familiar;
i’m reverting,
and a part of me does not care that it’s subverting
a flavor that has become bitter over the years—
tasty nonetheless.
this is what i’ve been avoiding;
the permeability of my thoughts,
hanging on a thread
of every word you say,
sweet and violent delights
gone bad.
i thought poetry was my gateway
to healing,
but my fear that one cares about i have to say
sours whatever’s left of my aims.
what if i move this way,
or touch upon my pain in that way?
will that reveal its true purpose?
or is it all just
honey glazed in malaise?
it’s true.
decades of candy
can make the brain rot;
it’s a curse to feel it all so deeply.
thought it was raining candy drops,
when in reality it’s been raining mercury .
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I often meditate to you
Tones it balances me
Your voice is lingering
Finger pleasuring
Igniting in syllables
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