A Stream of Consciousness POETRY CONTEST

++

I am running a poetry contest that ends June 9th. It's on my most popular platform: Instagram. The prize for the winners is that I will write your poem on a human canvas, maybe even myself, and post it in my feed. Anyone on Instagram can enter: it's here if you want to check it out. I'm looking forward to reading all the poems people are sending me.

I should also do the contest here right? This idea just occurred to me actually, not before, because I have a feeling there won't be much interest. However, I am going to do it anyway. YES!

Here are the rules:

1. Write a short stream-of-consciousness poem in English (5 lines maximum)
2. Post your poem with the tag #physiopoetry and mention the contest in your post
3. Comment on this post with a link to your entry

The winner will see their poem written on myself, the human canvas. If there are any interesting objects in your poem I will try to include them. I will post your PHYSIOPOEM here in my feed and on my Instagram feed. The contest ends when this post stops earning, in exactly 7 days. I will be the sole judge of the contest. I wish I could offer some crypto, but because that is not in my budget, what I am offering is this artistic collaborative piece, combining your words with my poetry/photography project, which if you're not familiar, is called Skin on Sundays.

If you're not sure what stream of consciousness means, the writing below is in stream-of-consciousness style for an example. A more direct description is writing which flows directly out of the mind without the writer stopping to think. The dictionary defines it this way: "a literary style in which a character's thoughts, feelings, and reactions are depicted in a continuous flow uninterrupted." In this case, the character is likely you, the writer.

I sincerely hope that some people submit some poems because I love collaborating with other artists!

++

I went out last night and accidentally did some cocaine at 5am with the band and some horses rode into the apartment too for an otherworldly encore chanting yes yes yes for at least the length of 22 skyscrapers that actually left bruises on the skin of my soul the good kind of bruises with the lights a little dim and the moon a little low almost low enough for it to swim and when the time came to sleep like a burrito in a blanket in the middle of the room right under the chandelier whose voice also rang like a choir of wind chimes during a tornado my grandmother called me from the afterlife on a rotary phone wondering if I'd heard the news that cocaine is so 1970 and that I should have moved on to more fashionable options by now.

++

xoxo