Welcome to Kannik's page of Fridge Poetry...
An Explenation

During the weekend of Nov 1-5, 1997, I attended the Webnet Conference in Toronto (held at the Royal York hotel). While I was there, I stayed at Dronon's place. Who just so happened to have one of those frigde poetry kits/sets on his (appropriatly) fridge. Well, I made it my personal goal to use up all the words I possibly could before heading out. Below are the results... perhaps an insight into my creative side, or maybe just more evidence for why I should be locked away, shot, or both. At any rate, I hope you enjoy.

The first few poems at the top are those that were already on the fridge that I didn't want to remove because they were so good. The second part are the words from the lynx's mind...

Already on Fridge....

Sweet Death Crush the Dream Honey

Dronon’s Haiku!

summer petals fall
the gift of sleep and shadow
wax my flooded car

Incubate
  Winter
    Produce
     Spring
       Symphony
Fridge Poetry

My Poetry....

hair
hang
rob
and
size
next
may
woman
butt
none
yet
mean
suit
our
near
mad
leg
after
from
like
top
those
said
who
felt
not
an
as
as
as
what?

delicate scream
in frantic moment

Diamond Road
Soar
Blue Sky
Away
 

  languid  club
through his head
heave   &  trudge
shot            gone

Power
lives the
Forest
     Mother of
     thousand
     Life

essentially worship
elaborate eternity

Sordid Aparatus
one two red
With Rust

Whisper then Lie

picture Iron Cook
boil meat like moast
pound out juice
lick
put some
fast
stop
eat

shake milk
white trip
  t h i n k

together we smell
ugly pink sausage

ache with rain
true wind run
recall the vision

sun shine through
a TV

weak language
manipulating sweat

moon above
time of music
still

mist in garden
signing water
cool on my skin

Grown Men
please finger knife

Hot & Lazy
watching over
ship swimming

Only would he
Could he
Stare

Beat
about you and I
Feet
hit the day

bare lust
drive there never
place
drunk under black
void
rip at rose
leave

lathering
tiny Goddess

enourmous smear
as part of behind

urge     want
     play
after    pant

This page partially made with NetObjects Fusion (specifically the poetry part) just to get the damn layout done quickly. So that's why this page's layout kinda looks like poo. Sorry.

Poetry © Oliver Bollman & others 1997