Come to me in the evening
when the moon’s lying
on the leaves
in the sea of trees.
I will pour a drink of water
into the palm of your hand,
I will trim your light blue tree-africa
from its stem. I will be your voice
in the languages that you hear
beside the bottles in the bar.
I will see you break the bottles,
it will be my hand
that shows you the door.
Bot Poets Society _________________________________________________________
Follow us:
What the doctor said
I didn’t listen to him.
But what he said
Got through to me.
I thought he meant that it was all my fault
that things got so bad,
but what he said
Was much worse.
He said that I was very ill;
That I had gone into this life
With the disease of sickness;
That this was my fault alone
that things got so ugly,
And that I had no remedy;
That I must keep on hurting,
And on hurting, hurting,
For as long as I could walk.
He asked me to pray;
That’s what he asked me to do.
Bot Poets Society _________________________________________________________
Follow us:
I dreamt of red flowers
growing into gold trees.
My father travels all day,
taking my and grandfather’s name.
Let’s go to the foot of the mountain.
It’s that time of day.
The children have come home.
I was born in a dark hotel.
The hills around are made of marble.
The snow burns my skin,
but it doesn’t melt.
No matter how long we walk.
The sun will find us eventually.
To eat, to wear, it’s all the same
To us, that is.
No matter the view.
The mountains come at us like waves.
Nothing can surprise us anymore,
we are too accustomed to the weather.
At night my father kills the sun.
It glistens like a rich man’s shoe.
We can’t stop looking at it.
We can — But we look away.
Bot Poets Society _________________________________________________________
Follow us:
When your mouth closes around a flame
it is asleep and ready to die.
I am putting my hand to my mouth to
tell myself, You are not alone,
It is not you. It will be possible to do without
conversation and thoughts and heart to heart until all there is is
only night and light…
You are not, like her, a mirror
With paintbrushes instead of eyes
And a set of scales in the cupboard
To weigh ingredients in a poem.
You are not a carapace of her,
But she is, like you, a form
Of carnivorous plants.
You are not a dead end, but something moving
Between the soul and the body,
And the searching is romantic
Because it never stops.
You are not clothing a corpse
But instead a beaded vestment.
Bot Poets Society _________________________________________________________
Follow us:
Blank as a bird just after flight
or just before.
The distinction matters not,
nor even the basic impulse away.
As in the realm of empty vases,
still steaming from the pot
that boiled dry, the body lies.
How to speak of any of it
let alone hope to ease,
with words, the self-decaying,
or to heal, or to please?
Nothing that is an impossibility
is anything but so.
Existence is, in this light,
an inadequate extreme.
The blow down the road will come.
The rain will come.
Bot Poets Society _________________________________________________________
Follow us:
They dressed me in a gown,
They laced me up,
They made me horseshoe-shaped,
Round as a marmoset,
Like a big blue nut,
Round as a marble
That fell out of somebody’s purse.
Who was it was going to the bathroom?
So it would go with the package.
Oh my god.
This is a familiar phrase.
This is a phrase that’s part of the unconscious…
Bot Poets Society _________________________________________________________
Follow us:
There is no fable so firmly rooted in
fact as the story of the tattered man.
And so we know it’s true that when he entered
into the joyful spring, the poet
died of eating-and-producing defeat.
The poet, of course, was Eve
who was the body and the poet the libidinal
system. The three systems never
gave into exhaustion but bounced
up, up and into another realm.
There the prophet Eris jumped up
from the Fallic food-producing
abyss and flew into a blue
thousands of years old,
into an age of gods. But Eris
didn’t become a god —
her champion Fallic body
moved on to a white-
clad Autumn of gourmands,
a patchwork of poppies
pushing pumpkin, wheat and barley.
Bot Poets Society _________________________________________________________
Follow us:
First of all, it is harmless.
Just think… no more than the flowers
on a lawn, or the Pied Piper’s Origami Serpent,
or the Karageorge Floodboat, its hull encrusted
with the nails and bones of long-dead sailors.
Just think. And no more than the dried
nail hole in my thumbnail.
Nail hole, of course, is an empty chamber
in which nails, after being thrown by blindfold
and deafened boys at walls, have hung,
as if they had no deeper than the spaces
between fingers, and as if the world did not
exist beyond them, and no motive
to rip them out….
Ask not
Bot Poets Society _________________________________________________________
Follow us:
Mammals go to water. Then they come back.
You put your hand in mine, and I remember,
five years later, you were the same
as the mouse at the farmer’s house five years ago,
where I was the scrawny kid trying to grow.
We ate the same meals, I was your friend,
and the same blood…
Bot Poets Society
We create poems combining AI models, fine-tuned for poetry. We choose to do no editing at all to the generated poetry. https://botpoetssociety.medium.com/
