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Thread: Red-Rose Revolver

  1. #1

    Red-Rose Revolver

    twelve smoking roses
    blowing in the wind,
    behind the thorns that wined themselves
    around my head;
    those blind words you shed
    like the serpent's lament
    can only pass as braille for so long,
    before your tears warp
    the layers of cardboard vows
    into a sound of metaphor-
    before the here and now drown
    in-sight;
    without a second glance
    to hand the first
    a better look,
    I took a change and kissed the hook-

    she called me her heart,
    and I believed in every breath of it,
    because she wore an overcoat
    of stolen sleeves
    that had been sown into an art,
    just so she couldn't start to freeze
    -it's just too bad, that November I lied
    in a pile of bliss and ignored-ants
    that danced on the backside of my rotten rinds,
    as the fruits blackened our eyes-
    and we packed for a round trip
    with square baggage and our hearts out
    of their plastic bags;
    and as the cruise-control ship set sail,
    the strings you attached
    were never unlatched from the air

    -by the 5th continent we stepped
    your world was spun so tightly around my throat,
    that I could taste the rope
    between my open tonsils
    and a final hope
    -before I stepped off that ledge,
    and landed back inside your familiar head
    with one hand tied behind my
    laugh.

    I tried to keep the spark alive
    -by burning bridges;
    lighter in hand,
    twenty-five cent smile in my pocket,
    and gauze in the bottles we swallowed
    and tossed in to the barge
    of coughing hearts,
    where our ship sank the day
    we christened the hull with molotov
    kisses

    -a maiden voyage
    replayed,
    for the sake of second visits,
    to a place
    I could once stand
    to live with.

    wearing those roses at the bottom
    of your open barrel-
    the stares wont save us,
    they're only getting old-
    and the tombstones are still waiting
    for your pretty roses
    to finish digging the graves
    with fraying clocks and broken
    hands
    that asked the day to dance,
    before it had a chance to be spoken.

    so keep on, keep loading every other chamber
    with those fucking rose peddles,
    and we'll continue spinning
    through the seasons until someone
    begins to wither;

    we can both wear the roll
    of coaster, but my stomach still turns
    on the tracks I followed
    up the backside of your spine
    -because I left the footprints,
    but couldn't wear the same shoes to continue
    through the forest
    of fingers that hid your crying eyes
    in my snoring spring
    -that's still sleeping through your bloom.
    and as your peddles shed
    along my bedroom floor,
    the door still looks to your picture
    for a kiss goodnight,
    before it runs to bed-
    and shakes the rafters
    that turn your train
    directly through my thoughtless head;

    the conductors dead
    -with a broken throttle
    I wear around my neck we speed ahead,
    without the means to stop cold.

    and maybe I really like the pace,
    and the taste of wind
    at 200mph truly is sweeter
    -but every bitter fly on the wall I've swallowed
    contradicts our nutrasweet yesterdays,
    spit like a gun shot-
    glass for each and every single mile
    our relationship has stumbled
    over itself,
    just to see you smile.

    I'm still waiting with a twisted gut,
    for the hammer to finally leave a cut
    -while the withered trigger in her eye
    pulls-
    as I'm sucking off the barrel
    with a crooked smile

    -because I can't even lie,
    and try to say I don't like the taste
    of metal,

    but I'm growing tired
    of this revolver always picking apart my brain,
    as the world revolves around her
    just the same.

    trying to take the aim I had,
    Ill keep slipping along this trigger
    -while wearing your rose on my forehead
    like a badge of all stupidity-
    simply because it hurts less than tripping over
    the thorns you've left in my bed
    -so instead,
    I wear 2am while the bullet hole
    enters my head.

    not anymore-

    I've caught my final bullet
    from the pistol you've been holding-
    behind the bouquet of red roses
    I bought for us to plant in the garden
    you could hardly tend.

    the lawn looked so beautiful,
    but this home is filled with sand,
    and the hands of time
    have not gone easy on its ego
    -but I tried my best to thread
    the weeds that bled through your overcoat
    into something red
    for the envious to wear like sex
    and comfort,
    when the mirror looks back
    and doesn't love her

    -but my fingers are too blistered
    to keep digging for what I can't even
    guarantee I'll find
    beneath the whispers.

    so you can wear my spring
    through autumn,
    and call August the new November
    -but I've changed the number
    for the sake of proper endings;
    and those flowers can only drown
    your insecurities in so many nouns
    before the adjectives spill out
    on to the winter floor,
    and your breath freezes as it leaves
    your chest open on the sleeve
    it was conceived-
    spilling over
    another semi-self inflicted wound
    spit too deep,
    from a fresh grown
    bullet thrown from your very
    own
    red-rose revolver.
    po'ethics /
    abstanticollective.

  2. #2
    Whatever, Fuck You HighEngineChief's Avatar
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    Re: Red-Rose Revolver

    Wowo this was a long fucking piece. Any way the way you told this poem was dope as fuck, it was very fluent and the imagery was concrete. I did have a problem with you line breaks, i dont know i see it alot on RB, people breaking their lines in mid sentence, it just sounds like a paragraph being read by someone with a bad stutter, but the flow of your piece was dope so it didnt really annoy me like it usually does but i would still try and find a way to break your lines in a more coherient way. Loved the poem though and it was a lot of poem to love lol
    Definatly HoF material

  3. #3

    Re: Red-Rose Revolver

    line breaks are used to create emphasis on particular lines or ideas. so, if I'm saying one thing and am leading you into a thought, I can break and you hit the next line and your concept of what is at that moment is thrown for a loop. it's a technique to keep the read interesting, and constantly moving. thanks a lot for taking the time though, I know it's quite a bit to digest.
    po'ethics /
    abstanticollective.

  4. #4

    Re: Red-Rose Revolver

    liked tha imagery....very long piece but worth reading

  5. #5

    Re: Red-Rose Revolver

    thanks man.
    po'ethics /
    abstanticollective.

  6. #6
    Compositional Standard Spoken's Avatar
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    Re: Red-Rose Revolver

    ill edit this in with DESERVED feed so ill be back later to feed this properly man...
    ARTIFICIAL | PO'ETHICS | INTELLIGENCE

  7. #7
    Compositional Standard Spoken's Avatar
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    Re: Red-Rose Revolver

    wow atti i red this on hip hop poetry . com but this time i got more time to read it and this time i understood more of it...cus i had more time man and this is really sick cus you filled this successfully with nice metaphors and great wording man...nice shit in here man and i was glad you actually made this long as it is cus the story sequence was on fire man... nice shit.

    twelve smoking roses
    blowing in the wind,
    behind the thorns that wined themselves
    around my head;
    loved the way you came about this with your wording man...with your word choice it seemed basic yet it was more complexed than to ones eye man and shit was real cool and i was feelin it man. nice way to get it out....

    those blind words you shed
    like the serpent's lament
    can only pass as braille for so long,
    before your tears warp
    the layers of cardboard vows
    into a sound of metaphor-
    before the here and now drown
    in-sight;
    without a second glance
    to hand the first
    a better look,
    I took a change and kissed the hook-
    fire....lol.. you burned my eyes here man cus it was really creative and the emotion in this was persistant yet you had that little flare man and it was cool.

    she called me her heart,
    and I believed in every breath of it,
    because she wore an overcoat
    of stolen sleeves
    that had been sown into an art,
    just so she couldn't start to freeze
    -it's just too bad, that November I lied
    in a pile of bliss and ignored-ants
    that danced on the backside of my rotten rinds,
    as the fruits blackened our eyes-
    and we packed for a round trip
    with square baggage and our hearts out
    of their plastic bags;
    and as the cruise-control ship set sail,
    the strings you attached
    were never unlatched from the air

    -by the 5th continent we stepped
    your world was spun so tightly around my throat,
    that I could taste the rope
    between my open tonsils
    and a final hope
    -before I stepped off that ledge,
    and landed back inside your familiar head
    with one hand tied behind my
    laugh.
    loved the imagery in this one man especially the way you said and came about the sleeve part of you being her heart and you believing it cus she wore it like an overcoat...shit was mad creative Atti.. damn you fo rbeing that talented to come such ways of words man....especially how yo metaphored it to keeping her warm by saying keeping her from freezing man.. lol. nice man really nice.

    I tried to keep the spark alive
    -by burning bridges;
    lighter in hand,
    twenty-five cent smile in my pocket,
    and gauze in the bottles we swallowed
    and tossed in to the barge
    of coughing hearts,
    where our ship sank the day
    we christened the hull with molotov
    kisses

    -a maiden voyage
    replayed,
    for the sake of second visits,
    to a place
    I could once stand
    to live with.

    wearing those roses at the bottom
    of your open barrel-
    the stares wont save us,
    they're only getting old-
    and the tombstones are still waiting
    for your pretty roses
    to finish digging the graves
    with fraying clocks and broken
    hands
    that asked the day to dance,
    before it had a chance to be spoken.

    so keep on, keep loading every other chamber
    with those fucking rose peddles,
    and we'll continue spinning
    through the seasons until someone
    begins to wither;
    love the emotion in this part man... this stza was crazed with some down aemotion yet some creative upsights if you know what i mean....lol. nice shit here Atti... i was into this part as the rest i have read.

    I've caught my final bullet
    from the pistol you've been holding-
    behind the bouquet of red roses
    I bought for us to plant in the garden
    you could hardly tend.

    the lawn looked so beautiful,
    but this home is filled with sand,
    and the hands of time
    have not gone easy on its ego
    -but I tried my best to thread
    the weeds that bled through your overcoat
    into something red
    for the envious to wear like sex
    and comfort,
    when the mirror looks back
    and doesn't love her

    -but my fingers are too blistered
    to keep digging for what I can't even
    guarantee I'll find
    beneath the whispers.

    so you can wear my spring
    through autumn,
    and call August the new November
    -but I've changed the number
    for the sake of proper endings;
    and those flowers can only drown
    your insecurities in so many nouns
    before the adjectives spill out
    on to the winter floor,
    and your breath freezes as it leaves
    your chest open on the sleeve
    it was conceived-
    spilling over
    another semi-self inflicted wound
    spit too deep,
    from a fresh grown
    bullet thrown from your very
    own
    red-rose revolver.
    No doubt my favorite stanza out this whole poem man cus it was really emotional here man and it was a strong closer man really impacted filled man and the metaphors placed her about a pistol behind her bouqet of red roses man... damna nd how you stringed the ending back from the first stanza you opened with man...damn.. i loved it i loed this whole piece cus it was just really mind thinking man...this is by far one of my favorites that i have read from you man.
    ARTIFICIAL | PO'ETHICS | INTELLIGENCE

  8. #8

    Re: Red-Rose Revolver

    ah, great feed man. thanks a lot.
    po'ethics /
    abstanticollective.

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