Our Exquisite Corpse

Exquisite Corpse #6

Tue, 19 Feb 2013 15:50:57 -0500

Like a fool, I believed
& when your head is turned, you will know.
The old city cracked when we blew to cool it off
and
she unzipped his skin with a smiling blade
flew by in the tides of turquoise,
She didn’t want to lie, but after a while she couldn’t stop it anymore.

Exquisite Corpse #6

Tue, 19 Feb 2013 15:50:47 -0500

Like a fool, I believed
& when your head is turned, you will know.
The old city cracked when we blew to cool it off
and
she unzipped his skin with a smiling blade
flew by in the tides of turquoise,
She didn’t want to lie, but after a while she couldn’t stop it anymore.

Exquisite Corpse #5

Tue, 13 Sep 2011 00:56:52 -0400

Then we found the old place, with all its corners intact.
Those times were silly, those kisses and caresses.
She had an unusual presence about her.
The sky opened up and showed there was nothing above, except
a burden to bear, my burdens laid bare.
If you are cold, burn your books.
But oh, Father Joseph, stop touching me there!
I wish it wasn’t happened, and I wouldn’t cry.
This can’t be reality.

Exquisite Corpse #4

Tue, 06 Sep 2011 18:21:31 -0400

If you run too far away, the thunderstorms will bring you home.
Truth is a matter of perception.
Silent as scorched tulips
in honor of my friend.
Don’t wait for the scars to fade when the wounds haven’t yet healed.
I’ve renounced poetry. This is not a line in a poem. C’est ne pas une line in a poem.
I understand less than half of what I pretend to.
Judgement feels like a slow, harrowing death without relief.
You must learn to open your heart.

I don’t want an orgy, I can barely ride the busthen I peed my pants a little.Wasps tumble from...

Fri, 02 Sep 2011 13:53:15 -0400

I don’t want an orgy, I can barely ride the bus
then I peed my pants a little.
Wasps tumble from her palms.
I love because He first loved me But that doesn’t mean that I love the way he wants me.
I think everyone hates me sometimes.
Sometime when it’s quiet, tell me what you hear.
He shouted - perhaps threateningly, perhaps provocatively - and I quickened my step.
Let’s not forget backflips! Spines like spaghetti!
Who knew insane would taste like cashews?
We stole a tray of carrots from the picnic and got in the runaway car as fast as possible.
I couldn’t see through it.
The day I realized my feet were my eyes.
Handy people with really soft hands
Dreamed of something terrible, but forgot what it was.
The way out is a way in.
The lock is broken, the door is open.
My female is actually very male.
It’s not gay marriage. It’s marriage.
The princess squirmed against her sausage-like captors.
You make me feel very banana
it wasn’t until I ate it,
and that’s how you tell kids a story.
Me no hungry.
I thought she was at least eighteen.
I spend plenty of time up my own ass.
I wish I had
elbow macaroni blast into space.

(This is the Exquisite Corpse created by the attendees of the Pittsburgh Zine Fair! Thanks to everybody who came out to the event and a special thanks to everyone who submitted a line for this poem! If you missed a chance to submit at the fair, don’t worry, we are ALWAYS accepting lines at Our Exquisite Corpse! So send one in!)

Exquisite Corpse #3

Sat, 16 Jul 2011 12:41:53 -0400

As if the wigwams had converted themselves to spoons
descending into the whirlpool.
A firework explodes in my head every time I hear you talk.
The shadows reached for her like demons from a nightmare.
Let’s go somewhere and judge people.
Little is known about these structures.
Lips lick long, lazy linguine lines
There are fears here
“For shame,” I thought as my eyes fluttered closed. “For shame.”

Exquisite Corpse #2

Mon, 27 Jun 2011 12:08:22 -0400

I started a cult.
My life was almost over before I even realized it had started
when she smoked, glitter fell from her fingertips
The oak tree yawns shade over our checkered blanket
Stockholm prize in Criminology:
awarded for genetic profiling,
as in, some of us are predisposed to commit crimes.
Apologize now,
there’s no explanation later.
And, above all, the rain was quiet.
when she kissed me… it felt like the murder of kittens

Exquisite Corpse #1

Sat, 18 Jun 2011 21:02:36 -0400

United we stand.
It’s gotten to the point where you can’t ask me anything.
I don’t have the answer.
I lied.
I lied when I said I knew.
my mother calls me a slut
Could it be the ebbing of a everpresent lie- to be ourselves rather than die?
What’s with today, today?
orange & blue the bubbles rise to the top
Interns. Why do they think they are SO smart??
These Cheetos taste like ass.
sometimes, all you have to do is very little to make a lot happen.

Welcome to "Our Exquisite Corpse"

Wed, 08 Jun 2011 19:42:00 -0400

Welcome to a Tumblr experiment in creativity, crowd-sourcing, surrealism and saving the world.

WHAT IS AN “EXQUISITE CORPSE?”

From ExquisiteCorpse.com: Among Surrealist techniques exploiting the mystique of accident was a kind of collective collage of words or images called the cadavre exquis (exquisite corpse). Based on an old parlor game, it was played by several people, each of whom would write a phrase on a sheet of paper, fold the paper to conceal part of it, and pass it on to the next player for his contribution.

WAIT, WHAT?

Basically, you write something. Then someone else writes the next line without being able to see what you wrote. Then, the whole thing is collected into a full-length piece of writing. In our case, poetry.

HOW DO I PARTICIPATE?

Go to the “Ask” box. Send us a single line.

THEN WHAT HAPPENS?

After we have about 25 10 lines (to start, we might go longer in the future) we’ll combine them all and post them to this Tumblr as a poem.

WHERE DID YOU GET THE IDEA?

The Exquisite Corpse is a tradition at Typewriter Girls shows. I’ve been very lucky to work with TWG and think the Exquisite Corpse is always a fabulous way to close the night. I’m very into the idea of creativity via the virtual and social media being a valid way to try and connect through the arts, inspire one another AND expose people to the arts who otherwise might not seek them out.

I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO WRITE!

Write anything.

WHAT IF WHAT I WRITE IS STUPID?

It’s not.

REALLY?

I promise.

BUT I’M NOT REALLY A POET!

Yes, you are. We’re all poets, in the end.