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Welcome to Kate's...Poetry? If you could call it thatDon't run away! I won't blather on about crap you don't want to hear (the way I feel about this and that, the way stuff smells or whatever poetry is usually about). These are my strange and somewhat disturbing poems. Enjoy.Bathroom Atrocities: A PoemWritten as a response to Kim's poem, 'Garden Atrocities', which was about feeling bad for herbs. Or something. I walk into the room The aroma of Glade: Fresh Flowers Inflates my nostrils To the size of highlighter pens I reach for my fly, Grip the end, and pull I pull my pants down to my ankles, And settle myself upon the seat It is cold, hard, and reminds me of a porcelain bus As I �go�, I breathe a sigh of relief I see the toilet paper The toilet paper sees me I rip some off, I �use� it. I get up, pull my pants up, And yank on the fly end. As the water runs over my soapy hands, My task is complete. I am human! Killer PlantA poem I wrote to reflect a paranoid state of mind. I take a deep breath Of the aromatic pot plant Its green leaves reaching out to me Like hundreds of plant like hands I throw the plant across the room To avoid my fate And as I hear the terracotta shatter I feel at ease I stand up, out of my chair, And walk across the room to my uprooted plant It is lying there on the carpet Like a corpse The dirt has fused with the carpet To form a substance known only as Mud The roots were standing up, pointing to the sky It appears that they are tyring to reach out to me To take a grasp of my exposed neck Covered in Chanel perfume From D.E.K.A So I pick up the plant With it�s dangerous mind And I toss it I toss it to the wind To the sky To the trees And I am free Released from my plants prison It has held on me. Let's ResearchMrs Robertson* tried to inspire us to write poetry in sixth form based on some words. Things like, 'aroha', 'road', and 'friendship'. I decided to write a 'Mrs Robertson Friendly Poem', about learning things in the library. Thin and thick books Ready at the waiting For fingers to brush their spines Catching a whiff of the fragrant scent Of the yellowed pages Words after words after words Some long, like Macintosh Some short, like The Computers humming Their keyboards primed and plugged in Anticipating long slender fingers Touching the keys in an order known only To a man named Dictionary A vertical file cabinet With what seems like thousands of folders Containing clippers and papers Grown stale with time And as I stand here, at the library door, And let the information wash over my body, I know the task at hand is to research And research I shall do. The Principal Meal Of The DayA poem about a really bad dinner. Not from any one memory, more of a combination of several. Written as my Sixth Form English poem. After sampling the Hostel Food, the memory of these dinners is a luxury. The table is laden with cuisine Held in pots, dishes and pans, But this sight does not Make my senses cry out in glee The peas, in their pot of yellow design, Are squishy, squelchy, and spongy, And their odor is not unlike wet fur The potato, perching precariously on the purple pot, Does not remind me of potato The meat patties, are piled upon each other, Almost in a bid to escape their fate. They are coated in a layer of black crumbly charcoal But I know that when they are penetrated with my knife, They will be a startling crimson inside. My head is spinning as I take my seat As I peruse the tables contents, My stomach flutters and trembles I plaster a smile on my face, And utter pleased sounds, As the aromas of the food merge band together to make an army, Which makes a violent attack on my unprepared nostrils. But I cannot be impolite, and refuse to eat this horrendous excuse for food So I eat the monstrosity that is my dinner. |
