A few ideas of poems to work further on

so here are so possible poems i would want to work on, so leave a comment of what interests you most and i'll probably work on it, thanks

1:
the sum of man
laid out at your fingertips
within the hollowed bones of nature

her skeleton becomes our canvas
to document our intelligence
our struggle
our bloodlines
and our hopes to escape the grasp of Her bony fingers

2:
The Court must insist
(Here the prisoner sat down)
The following day, January 27, was a Sunday
Organic farmers need to plow
to bury and kill weeds

This makes people feel that the
alcohol industry is helping their community
light chest, streaked belly
the plan was working!

but the excruciating pain of hypothermia
wore at Malar
and before long a pull of gloom and hopelessness
had returned
Different messages might be carried away
but they plainly were rejecting the ethic of
acquisitive individualism

I was a professional soldier

3:
as I walked down the fresh pavement
of my de facto fenced neighborhood
streaks began to fill the sky, the air
and the cracks between my steps

I saw an act of nature
between a young bird and its fate
lying sideways, broken and filthy and perfect
streaks running across its body

I ran home through puddles and pavement
and closed my eyes in the shower
I felt tiny streaks of water
run from my back down over my stomach

I drove to your house where we
once shared something beautifully bare
and you ran your hands across my body
and left streaks across my stomach

4:
I earnestly desire something spiritual
I want God to talk to me while I sleep
I want to find my inspiration like the old Romantics did
to be moved by something larger than my bones

I need my own vision quest
my own Anne Frank
my own Mt. Eerie
my own Vietnam
my own Plague
my own fear of death

5:
Oppenheimer apprehensions as I realize
that I too, write in a notebook

the lifeguard v2

Everyday he would take the same route to the beach. And every day he would slowly walk the same route from his car to his post, letting his body adjust to the tension of the sun. And every day he would sit atop his post, with his eyes squinting, looking out over the blue void and he would think about all the women he hated. He never had to look very far, they were around him at every moment; in town, in shops, in libraries, at home, and especially at the beach. There were women with skin that darkened under the sun, women that wore little or nothing, and women who laughed heavily about nothing and thought little about everything. There were women who revered Marilyn Monroe, women who were in love with their body and whose universe did not extend past their lightly freckled skin. There were women who didn’t read Dostoyevsky or Tolstoy or London or Thoreau or Nietzsche. Their gods lied within the glossy pages of a magazine, or maybe a romance novel written with the basic formula that all romance novels follow. These women had no passion in their lives; they had no art, no literature, no control, they had no purpose to their life other than tanning and fucking.

So ever day he would sit perfectly still on top of his post and stare at them through his darkened aviator glasses, observing and hating, letting the strangling heat of the sun beat down over his body. Sometimes when the heat was particularly overwhelming he would let his hate separate his mind from his crude, sweating body, and let it drift across philosophies and religions and meanings. He knew that God was dead, and he knew that religion was a crutch, and that you had to create your own purpose in life. He knew that nature was the only thing that was still beautiful anymore, and that it was the only thing that could still move him. He knew that someday he would leave the beach and its women behind to find his own salvation in the wilderness. He knew that no one else could comprehend this and that made him alone.

He felt he had to gain complete control over his own body. He needed to discipline it, to ignore and abuse it. He needed to make it suffer through starvation and pain, to let his body know that it was not associated with his mind. To assert that his body could not touch the infinite purity of his mind was important to him. He would not allow himself to become one of the endless women on the beach who saw their bodies as a pinnacle and summation of beauty in the world, as something to be enjoyed and relished. He knew the human form was something ugly and detestable that it in no way provided an ample representation of his self.

He could not let the ignorance of the world taint his soul.

And this is what he would think of every day, atop his post, eyes gazing across the expanse of the ocean, with the thick heat of the sun washing over him. He loved how his hate separated his mind from his body, as well as the separation it created between himself and every other person on the beach. He knew that he was not like any of them and his hatred was confirmation. And witnessing their behavior at the beach allowed him justification for his hatred.

One day while he was lost in thought under the pressure of the sun, someone yelled from far away. At first he didn’t take notice, but allowed it to fuel his hatred for a little longer. But the yelling grew louder and drew nearer and soon it became audible. A woman with streaked golden hair down to her shoulders and a pair of eyes streaked by horror and shock ran towards him. She was out of breath and fell to her knees when she reached the bottom of his post, drawing in oxygen with sharp gasps, heaving out her words in short blasts. Someone was drowning.

For a moment he gazed at the woman, running his eyes over her hair, eyes, skin tone and shape. Her hair was still dripping from salty ocean water and sweat, and her chest was rapidly rising and falling, and coupled with the strange position she had fallen to, she had the appearance of and injured animal. He felt disgusted by her appearance and a slight grimace grew across his face as he watched her completely erode in the brightly reflective sand.

His eyes then slowly turned towards the horizon and he scanned the glassy surface of the water. A little ways out he saw something thrashing in the water, causing little ripples in the surrounding area. He imagined the panic they were feeling; the hot flashes surging through their body, the dulling of rational thought as the water filled their lungs. He wondered what was running through their mind now that death was so close, so imminent. Did they regret not thinking more heavily about art and literature and philosophy and religion? Did they recognize the mistakes of their life? Did they realize how pointless their existence had been? Or did they simply go into a frenzy, desperately trying to dig their nails into what little life they had left? He wondered if their eyes resembled those of a cow’s when they hear the wet death of the ones ahead of them in the slaughter line. He thought that they probably did.

So he simply sat there and watched the little ripples become smaller and less frequent until they were completely swallowed by the greater ebb and flow of the ocean. When there was no longer any disturbance across the smooth surface, a sense of envy came over him. He speculated whether or not they ever truly appreciated the beauty of their situation, completely escaping their body. As the woman beneath him continued to yell and shake violently in disbelief, little streaks ran down his cheeks, catching slightly on his upturned lips before dropping onto the waiting sand below.

the lifeguard

Everyday he would take the same route to the beach. And every day he would walk the same route from his car to his post. And every day he would sit atop his post, with his eyes looking out over the blue void and he would think about all the women he hated. He never had to look very far, they were around him at every moment; in town, in shops, in libraries, at home, and especially here at the beach. There were women with skin that darkened under the sun, women that wore little or nothing, women who laughed heavily about nothing and thought little about everything. There were women who revered Marilyn Monroe, women who were in love with their body and whose universe did not extend past their lightly freckled skin. There were women who didn’t read Dostoyevsky or Tolstoy or London or Thoreau or Nietzsche. Their gods lied within the glossy pages of a magazine, or maybe a romance novel written with the basic formula that all romance novels follow. These women had no passion in their lives; they had no art, no literature, no control, they had no purpose to their life other than tanning and fucking.
So ever day he would sit perfectly still on top of his post and stare at them through his darkened aviator glasses, observing and hating, letting the strangling heat of the sun beat down over his body. Sometimes when the heat was particularly overwhelming he would let his hate separate his mind from his crude, sweating body, and let it wander across philosophies and religion and meaning. He knew that God was dead, and he knew that religion was a crutch, and that you had to create your own purpose in life. He knew that nature was the only thing that was still beautiful anymore, and he knew that it was the only thing that could give him a purpose. He knew that someday he would be able to leave them all behind and find his own salvation. He knew that no one else could comprehend this. He knew he was alone.
First, he knew he had to gain complete control over his own body. He needed to discipline it, to ignore and abuse it. He needed to make it suffer through starvation and pain, to let his body know that it was not associated with his mind. To assert that his body could not touch the infinite purity of his mind was important to him. He would not allow himself to become one of the endless women on the beach who saw their body as a pinnacle and summation of the beauty in the world, as something to be enjoyed and relished. He knew the human form was something ugly and detestable that it in no way provided ample representation of his true self.
He could not let the ignorance of the world taint his own soul.
And this is what he would think of every day, atop his post, eyes gazing across the expanse of the ocean, with the thick heat of the sun washing over him. He loved how his hate separated his mind from his body, as well as the separation it created between himself and every other person on the beach. He knew that he was not like any of them and his hatred was confirmation. And witnessing their behavior at the beach allowed him justification for his hatred.

One day while he was lost in thought under the pressure of the sun, someone far away yelled. At first he didn’t notice, or care, but allowed it to fuel his hatred for a little longer. But the screaming grew louder and louder and soon it became audible. A woman with streaked golden hair down to her shoulders and a pair of eyes streaked by horror and shock ran towards him. She fell on the ground out of breath when she reached the bottom of his post and heaved out her words. Someone was drowning.
For a few moments he just stared at the woman, analyzing her hair, eyes, skin tone and shape. He felt disgusted and a slight grimace grew across his face as he watched her completely breakdown in the brightly reflective sand. Then his eyes moved up towards the horizon and he scanned across the glossy surface of the water. A little ways out he saw something thrashing in the water, causing little ripples in the grand immensity of the surrounding domain. He imagined the struggle and panic they were feeling; the hot flashes throughout your body, the shutdown of rational thought as the water filled their lungs. He wondered what was running through their mind now that death was so close, did they regret not thinking more heavily about art and literature and philosophy and religion? Did they recognize the mistakes of their life? Did they realize how pointless their existence had been? Or did they simply go into a frenzy, desperately trying to dig their nails into what little life they had left. He wondered if their eyes resembled those of a cow’s when they hear the wet death of the ones ahead of them in the slaughter line. He thought that they probably did. So he simply sat there and watched the little ripples become smaller and smaller until they were completely swallowed by the greater ebb and flow of the tides. And as the women beneath him continued to shake violently from trauma, little streaks ran down his cheeks, dropping salt water onto the waiting sand below.

I am the dark sheets
And I am the dark car seats
And I am a dark carpet floor
Beneath a dark leather couch
And I am the dark motives
of a dark 3 am
with a dark sky
streaked by dark clouds
I have dark eyes
And a dark mouth
My dark hands move in the dark
She said you’re dark
I am afraid

She had a lot of poetry
They were more of broken apart stories
With more specific details
And an excessive enjambment
But I loved them
And I loved her
And she used to write about grocery carts
And snow drifts under streetlights
And I think once she penned a story of our skin and her senses
When I was her lover
But now she writes of war and poverty
And other worldly issues from around the world
I still write about her

She told me that I had a lovely neck
And she used to run her fingers across it
And around it
And push her lips and tongue against it
And pull it back between her teeth
And she would say I had a lovely neck
And to never let it get dirty
From soot or grass or sweat
Or time
But we both got older
And my neck got dirty
And I broke out and I got sweaty
And I fell in the soot and the grass
And she told me that I used to have a lovely neck
I don’t blame her


That fucker had eyes like God.
Yeah, he did, but at least he listened. That’s gotta count for something.
Maybe. Maybe not. But he’s gone now, sure as shit he won’t be coming back.
Yeah. Maybe we’ll end up missing him?
I have my religion.
Yeah, but nothing like him. Maybe he will come back. Maybe once a few years from now he’ll come back through those doors and save us.
I have my religion.
Yeah?
Yeah.

The Photographer V2

She was an artist in the general sense. More specifically she was a photographer. She loved taking pictures with friends when they made wild faces, at school when she thought the classroom had a certain aesthetic, in the park when the grass felt cool under her bare feet. She loved the limits the photo’s frame offered after it slid out the other side. It provided her with a sense of perspective on the things around her that she couldn’t ever fully understand. She loved the feeling of solidity that it gave her, the things in each shot existed outside of what she saw with her eyes, they were independent of her life. It gave them life. She loved photography.

She then also liked to organize the photos into albums in neat symmetrical patterns in a strictly chronological order. She liked to get out her clear blue ruler and measure the exact number of half-inches in from the sides in order to align the four photos on each page in the perfect place. She enjoyed the patience and diligence that went into this work and the feeling of self-accomplishment that followed. She enjoyed the hours she poured into these albums, adding captions and borders and pages of more photos. She did this when there were quiet moments alone, or when there were quiet moments in class, or when there were quiet moments at the park. She loved photography.

He hated her for her love. He only had one class with her maybe five times a week for maybe an hour and a half. Unless either was sick or he skipped to go smoke, then it was slightly less. But he hated her for those few hours. He would watch her from across the room, watched her mindlessly measuring and adjusting and re-measuring and pasting her photographs into her albums as their teacher hopelessly taught ethics. He hated the way she would only look down at her photos, not blinking for minutes at a time. He hated her self-absorption and the way her tongue would sometimes creep out from beneath her lips as she slowly pasted down a corner. He hated everyone else in the class for not hating her the way he did. He didn’t understand how no one could notice this girl slowly working her photographs into an album until the bell would ring day after day. His hate consumed those few hours a day five times a week, maybe less. But once in a while his hate would spill into the evenings and ruin his cigarettes. Or sometimes his hate would leak into the weekends and ruin his nights and sheets. And sometimes even after that his hate would surge through his mind and send electricity through his bones as he had sex or when he masturbated or when he day dreamed. Some days after school when he would light up his cigarette, breathe it in apprehensively, and say to no one in specific, “I’m gonna burn those fucking photos some day.”

And then on no particular cool October day he did. It was more of a sudden impulse than anything planned or thought out. She was sitting on a bench outside the school taking a photo of the trees becoming vibrantly bare when the hate boiled up in his throat. He grabbed the album from off the bench and flipped it open. He saw to a photograph of her painted toe nails in the nearly green grass lighted by summer sun, a photo of a merry-go-round with two young children smiling on it smiling widely, a photo of a sunset intensified by the deadly fires of the west, and a photo of the girl with an empty smile standing next to some friends with emptier eyes. His body flared with hate and then his lighter flared from butane and then the album flared with flames.

She didn’t put up a fight, she didn’t protest or even stand up, she hardly even blinked. She met his eyes and held them for a long moment with a passive stare, eyes glossy like a lens. The acrid smell of burned chemicals stung his eyes and sent tears streaming down his cheeks. He wanted her to feel something, to hurt her badly, he wanted to grab hard onto her cheeks and drive his thumbs deep into her eye sockets, to crush the glass lenses. But he just stared, letting the cool October breeze put out the little flames of the album and pushing his tears off their course. The girl raised her camera, clicked, and walked away.

She was an artist in the general sense.

new story rough draft

She was an artist in the general sense. More specifically she was a photographer, or at least that’s what she thought of herself. She liked taking pictures with friends when they made wild faces, at school when she thought the classroom had a certain aesthetic, in the park when the grass felt cool under her feet. She liked the limits of the photo after it game out the other side. It gave her a sense of perspective on things she couldn’t ever fully appreciate. She liked the solidity that it gave her, that these things did exist and there was objective proof to this. She liked the feeling she got as she snapped each photograph, that what she was doing might someday be appreciate by someone else and they would know her. She liked photography. She then also liked to organize the photos into albums in neat symmetrical patterns in a strictly chronological order. She liked to get out her clear blue ruler and measure the exact number of half-inches in from the sides in order to align the four photos on each page in the perfect place. She enjoyed the patience and diligence that went into this work and the feeling of self-accomplishment that followed suit. She enjoyed pouring hours into these albums, adding captions and borders and pages of more photos. She enjoyed doing them when there were quiet moments alone, or when there were quiet moments in class, or when there were quiet moments at the park. She loved photography.

He hated her for her love. He only had one class with her maybe five times a week for maybe an hour and a half. Unless either was sick or he skipped, then it was slightly less. But he hated her for those few hours. He would watch her from across the room mindlessly measuring and adjusting and re-measuring and pasting her photographs into her albums as their teacher hopelessly taught ethics. He hated the way she would only look down at her albums and photos, not blinking for minutes at a time. He hated her self-absorption and the way her tongue would sometimes creep out from beneath her lips as she slowly pasted down a corner. He also hated how no one else hated her as much as he did. How no one could notice the quiet girl slowly pasting photographs into an album until the bell would ring day after day infuriated him. Then once in a while his hate would spill into the evenings and ruin his cigarettes. Then sometimes his hate would spill over into the weekends and ruin his nights. And even sometimes after that his hate would come up as he had sex or when he masturbated or when he day dreamed. Some days after school when he would light up his cigarette and breathe it in apprehensively he would say to no one in specific, “I’m gonna burn that fucker’s photos some day.”

And then one cool October day he did. It was more of a sudden impulse than anything planned or thought out. She was sitting on a bench outside the school taking a photo of the trees becoming vibrantly bare when he grabbed her album. He flipped it open to a day that featured a photograph of her painted toe nails in the almost green grass in the sunshine, a merry-go-round with two young children smiling on it, a sunset intensified by deadly fires of the west, and the girl with an empty smile standing next to some friends with empty eyes. His eyes flared with anger and then his lighter flared with butane and then the album flared with flames.

She didn’t put up a fight, she didn’t protest or even stand up, she hardly even blinked. She met his eyes and held them for a long while without really registering anything or sending any real message. He became wild at her indifference and began cursing loudly and tearing out pages of the album. The acrid smell of burning chemicals hurt his eyes and nostrils and served as a motivation to keep going. He wanted her to feel something, to hurt her badly, he wanted grab hard onto her cheeks and drive his thumbs hard into her eye sockets. But she just stared, and then after a while a cool October breeze put out the little flames. The girl took out her camera, snapped a photo, and walked away.

She was an artist in the general sense.

play

1-Act Play

By Cooper Foyt

[ANTON wakes suddenly, breathing hard with a faint sharp noise in the background. He takes a moment to gather his wits and realize that he is in his own bed. He moves legs out from the covers but remains seated in bed. His eyes move towards a picture frame that he picks up and stares at it for a moment. He places it back down gently and begins to quickly put on his clothes and brush his hair down with his hands. ANTON walks out the door and into the main apartment]

ANTON

[Looking around]

Laura! You here?

JEFF

[Watching television]

Cmon, Anton, keep it down!

ANTON

Sorry… have you seen Laura?

JEFF

You barely ever say a thing until someone’s got a massive hangover. Just ridiculous.

ANTON

Sorry…

JEFF

Anyways, they’re probably still in Rob’s room. Well, that’s where I saw them go last night anyways.

ANTON

Oh…okay.

JEFF

You shoulda been out here last night Anton, it was ridiculous. Some kid got up on the roof and was tossing balloons filled with shaving cream over the ledge. Ha he must have hit about 5 people that were walking by. Then some guy tried to get with Jackie, Brett’s girlfriend ya know? Well anyways they ended up going out back and fighting. Brett wrecked the guy in about 20 seconds, I think he had to get stitches ha. The whole party didn’t die down till around 7 or 8 or whenever the sun came up today.

ANTON

Yeah, I heard… what time is it anyways?

JEFF

Like 5 or somethin… I don’t know. Oh man, also, last night this….

[Lights begin to fade and only a solo light remains on ANTON. His speaking is inner-monologue and much more confident than before.]

ANTON

The dream last night, it was so… beautiful. The gentle caress of the sunrise, the dull hiss of the breaking waves, the glassy sea tinted vibrant reds and oranges. The breeze moving across my skin like her finger’s used to. Salt saturating every mouthful of breath…

[Lights quickly go back to normal as ANTON is interrupted by the sudden opening of a door and the appearance of LAURA and ROB. ROB silently proceeds to sit next to JEFF on the couch. LAURA moves to the kitchen and starts to try and find a cup for coffee. ANTON moves towards LAURA]

ANTON

Hey…

LAURA

[Briefly looks at ANTON before continuing to try and find a cup]

ANTON

So, how was the party?

LAURA

How do we never have any clean coffee cups?

ANTON

Did you check up here…?

[ANTON reaches up to higher cupboard]

LAURA

[Yelling]

Rob! Wanna go grab some Starbucks?

ANTON

Yeah, here’s one up here, here you go.

Laura

[Yelling]

Nevermind!

[ANTON hands jar to LAURA who takes it without speaking and begins to pour coffee into cup]

ANTON

So Laura, I had this dream last night I wanna tell-

LAURA

[Patting herself searching for something]

Hey Rob! Where’s my cell phone at?

ROB

Why would I know where your phone is? Probably on the bed stand.

[LAURA rushes off back to the bedroom leaving ANTON in the kitchen. He begins to overhear ROB and JEFF talking]

ROB

[Whispered incoherently]

Dude last night I must’ve made out with at least 10 other girls, I was so drunk.

JEFF

[Whispered incoherently]

Oh nice, did you….ya know?

ROB

[Whispered incoherently]

Of course man, with Laura and then Katie too after Laura passed out in my room.

[All lights fade. When they are lifted it is a different scene. ANTON is asleep in his bed. The room is lit by warm colors glowing from the window. The room has a pile of dirty clothes at the foot of the bed, and book shelf with many poetry and psychology books. LAURA enters the room in a towel, her hair is still wet, and walks over to the bed. She sits down gently near his feet and smiles at him. ANTON wakes up slowly, becoming aware of her presence. He sleepily meets her gave and smiles, moving his hand out towards hers. He moves his hand up to her thigh— A sharp, stinging noise erupts from the scene. All lights fade suddenly.

Lights return to normal with ANTON back in kitchen. He is caught in a zoned-out stare at nothing in particular]

[LAURA re-enters the kitchen focusing on her cell phone, as if texting]

LAURA

[Holding phone up in air]

We never get any reception in this crappy apartment….

ANTON

Hey Laura…

LAURA

[Not looking up from phone and taking drink of coffee]

Hmm?

[Laura looks up at ANTON as the lights fade. A solo light remains upon ANTON]

ANTON

I had this dream last night, you know, like the ones I used to have last year and tell you about. I was on this, indescribable beach, and a few feet away from me I saw these flowers, these brilliant roses. When I moved towards them they started to emit these strange and lovely sounds, like hearing a love story in a language you will never understand. And I just felt compelled to keep moving towards them, they were pulling at my chest, pulling like-

[ANTON is interrupted by the crash of LAURA’s coffee cup smashing on the floor. The room is shaking and there is the low rumble followed by a piercing whistle of a passing train.]

LAURA

[Can’t hear at first over sound of train]

…….knocks everything down at 5:15 [bends to clean spill]

[The telephone is now noticed to be ringing. ROB turns up the volume of the TV in the other room. Phone rings several times]

ROB

Laura! You gonna get that?

[LAURA rushes to answer the phone, obviously annoyed. ANTON crouches to clean broken cup and spilled coffee]

LAURA

Hello? … Yeah one second…

[LAURA walks over to ROB and gives the phone to him, wrapping her arms around him from behind. ANTON sees this from the corner of his eye as he is cleaning.

ANTON

[To self]

…they were pulling like gravity.

[All lights fade. When they are lifted they are in the other room again. LAURA is sitting on the floor looking through a book near the bookcase. ANTON is lying on the bed reading a book as well. ANTON sets his book down and his gaze falls upon LAURA who is illuminated by golden lights. ANTON mouths something but there is no sound. LAURA looks up at him, sets her book down, and gets into bed next to ANTON, resting her head on his chest. A sharp, stinging noise sounds the moment they touch. All lights fade suddenly.

They return to normal with ANTON still crouched over the broken coffee cup. He finishes cleaning and throws the broken parts away.]

[LAURA comes back towards ANTON, calling back at ROB and JEFF]

LAURA

….Yeah let me just grab my stuff and we’ll go. [Catching ANTON’s eye but quickly looking away] We’re just going to some bar downtown with some friends.

ANTON

Oh… ok. Did you wanna hear the rest of the dream?

LAURA

[Grabbing coat, purse, etc.]

Wha..? Yeah, hurry.

[Lights fade and only a solo light remains on ANTON]

ANTON

Well, these flowers, they kept changing colors. The colors would flash and vanish instantly and continuously. So many colors I had never seen before and they flowed out from these flowers like they were crying, their mourning spreading out across the sand. And they were growing too; vines flowed out in every direction, moving in and out of the soft dunes like crackling organic snakes. The vines created a wake of hundreds of more flowers like the first, all singing their exotic tones and seeping beauty. All of them kept pulling harder and harder at me until I became completely surrounded by them, and then in front of me, at the center of this orchard, at the center of this dream was the most beautiful sight, and that…

[Lights return to normal and ANTON is alone in the apartment. Everything is completely silent.]

ANTON

…was you, Laura.

[ANTON walks back into his room and sits on his bed, mirroring the way he awoke. He holds the picture frame in his hands, then places it face down back onto his bed stand. A piercing sharp noise sounds as the lights fade.]