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Best Poems Written by Iwould Prefernotto

Below are the all-time best Iwould Prefernotto poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Iwould Prefernotto Poem

Die Twice Exclamation Mark

Die twice exclamation mark.
Torment signaled basilisk
farce. 

Die twice rolled, 
freezing my snake eyes!

What a Soul you have!
And all your body a slit in 
my perception,
a cut to deepen my ignorance
of what little I see of you.

Better I get a taste
than swallow you whole.

Details | Iwould Prefernotto Poem

Child of Sleep

I dreamt with bears and crocodiles prowling cacophonous wetland impassibly gashed by deep black riveries. Without breath I dug my nails up a cleaved embankment. 
Atop, my eyes pocketed against the back of a sulfurously yellow corpse. 
 "A'deau,.. a'deau,.. a'deau,.. a'deau..." 
rung like a sonnetus flem from it's charcoaled esophagus. 
Air rushed past my clenched teeth my lungs expanding only to snap back into spasm when the dead took in a wretched gurgling inhale. 
It turned towards me,
and in the light of the swamp bees
a vortexical radiation 
where it should have 'faced'
I watched; my eyes melted. 

I curled into a small ball growing in density till I sunk like a bullet 
through a boiled egg into prehistoric earth.
I did not wake up.  
I write to you now a seed,
germinating.

Details | Iwould Prefernotto Poem

Say To the Sun

What is essential;
undivided,
barring stage or prop?

Unreliant on a theatre,
free from
composure or production
to justify its plot?

Singular,
particularly owned
to none other
than itself?

That which walks 
along the chain,
which balks at 
mind, 
"prison cell!"—
at that which
cannot stop.

Contained in it's
owness, 
box inside of box,
deaf from influence,
advice—
existence cop.

Essential and unchanging?
Yes, when
knowledge says 
of many singulars,
"a totality undone."

What if

Essential and changing?
Box inside of box,
but these boxes hide before 
us, and then they choose to stop?
there is no rhyme and reason
that says that we must
ask so rudely 
'why', 'who', or 'what';

we may only say they stop.
they become what they are not,
their reach is long without us.
they aught to owe us naught.

We may say 
'they aught to be like this'
(for fruitless dreaming eyes)
or
'weren't they different then'
(thoughts of bluer skies)
and
'how odd they make me feel now'
(the stranger-gaze demise)

Move on!
the meadow widens,
a great sprawl opens to
divide in,
to become 
and provide your own
essential, unknowable, everchanging 
box within a box.

Details | Iwould Prefernotto Poem

We Will Never Understand Love As Death

Love will always
mark itself out in the local of our eye,
but
our local is a lie. 

our love has crossed oceans,
bent the bend of a horizon
thousands of times over
the head we have of it.

our local is our meaning,
our value held to dear;
a self set in begining
short of wanting change be near.

and love is not close.
a love eludes what 'is',
but determined we find
we may still set its pose.

make love a local image;
fencing that writhe  
to gardended time
and pardon sudden changes
to a nature undivine. 

to mistake love's hold
for that which we control,
is to kill the swan and count
it's feathers and proclaim
in agony:

THIS IS THE LAST SWAN,
PURE AND WHITE!

'and forget to mention'

DEAD FOR ME TO SEE!

so

be weak in love and wish its death.
those prone to hold and own,
will always grasp at breath
and find shadows in their home.

Love like this will always burn,
will always make habit of it's beauty,
and will happen again and again,
for as long as we love.

Details | Iwould Prefernotto Poem

Notitle:0007

Down in my depths the old adage is true,
the more to life I've come to see
the less answers have pertained to me.

The world as will, and interpretation.
Though Marx spelled truth through change. 
Truth contained in the roots of 'self' dry 
in the public eye. Solipsism is such a form
that it will rise and crumble in this heat.
Digging into cracked pathways
for shadow and dirt. 
Interpreting these stones progresses with 
disdain for those who walk along them.

Thus the positive project denies itself affirmation;
a furtive pygmy kernel—
the totem of a days work.

Details | Iwould Prefernotto Poem

Poetry Soup Talks, Ow, Hot

Hot Soup talk is the pressure cooker's son!
Sweet derth of wicked tallows and 
wipped addicted frothing spider tounges!

But,

All Poets are not the same.
They are born and then multiply
regressivily complexifying claims
to:
love 
loss
mother
and father
who cannot love
or loved enough
but find behind them
a second lack.

This other lack that follows,
that fills with words and 
signal flares a homage 
to trauma,
to enjoyed pain,
to futures cut from knowing
what can lack in love.

Details | Iwould Prefernotto Poem

Language Rots

Language rots
in memories,
thoughts,
but in dreams 
above all
do lips blow
cherry O's and ah's

rolling hilltops into
milky afterbirth atmosphere
that I tumble down
quite suddenly by ear,

And in the valley pitch...
Blind visions—
Master!
Totem!
Taboo...too clear!
A knife pulled from 
ear to ear.

My tongue dries
in One breath.
There is no blood
to sop it's cracks.

Speak!
Swaying sandstone tablet
of my mouth,
bring dull words hum
to stricken Sabaoth!

Oh Master,
Oh Totem,
Oh Taboo!

Did language escape you?

Does it hurt?
Are you well?

Will language pass us too?

Ought life still bear inside us 
that sickly smell? 

Then, shall we forgive 
our fathers?
Or plate their heads 
with dinner done?
Cut mothers from
our shadows? 
Pull demons from our beds?

           
                 See God designed before us
                 cowled in marble stoop?..

                                                      and perched above the entrance
                                                      all we'd hoped to lose?

Won't our figures fail us?
Won't 'we'
forget 'us'?

When past loses present,
when future
brings before us

new ages
soundless breath,

towards beyond becoming,

across the footpath of death,

and then beyond all passage,

beyond all broken bread, 

beyond all of movements asking
save but one 
colliding 
thread... 

then,



and only 
then finally,




will we want language again?

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Notitle:0004

A man carried 
seven plastic bags
onto the subway
with shit in his sweats.

Everyone exited early,
laughing.

Details | Iwould Prefernotto Poem

To Livia, And, To You Reader

I see our time,
and, around it
a door.

Latchless hinging
on the thimble 
thumbs of 
two children.

I run into you
a needle,
arive behind
you a thread,
undone in my 
knitting,
stained red.

Details | Iwould Prefernotto Poem

Notitle:0002

Five hours straight
Through the night.
Fingers pitch black
In old moonlight.

Skim milky mountain waves,
Peak tree greetings.
Signal flare kite,
Dive right!

River willow window,
Coat rack recruit.
Red bedding pillow,
Plastic tomb salute.