Poetry

This forum caters to our literary tastes.

Postby RaulMonkey on Mon Mar 13, 2006 12:30 am

Well, Flumm, I may have been speaking in generalities somewhat when I said textbooks give us a sanitized view of history--it's really a certain breed of lazy academic; a type that always has been and always will be with us. Like you said, it takes individual initiative (and a thirst for and appreciation of the truth) to find the bigger picture.
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Postby buster00 on Mon Mar 13, 2006 1:06 am

Two strapping young cowboys from Brokeback
Engaged in a bit of some stroke-sack
The spurs didn't hurt
When they ripped through Heath's shirt
But there won't be no healing Jake's poked crack

-- buster00


All the lady apes ran from King Kong
For his dong was unspeakably long
But a friendly giraffe
Took his yard-and-a-half
And subsequently burst into song

-- unknown
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Postby RaulMonkey on Fri Mar 17, 2006 8:38 pm

Ah, we're breaking out the doggerel now!

"Spongebob Ginch" by RaulMonkey

1.
Five bucks a pair
Just can't compare
To old Mom and Pop:
Six-fifty a pop.

2.
Synthetic fibres give me glee,
Polyester helps me pee.
Oh, Spongebob ginch,
You would not be
Were it not for the old
Texas tea.

3.
Wal-Mart favours guys, not dolls.
Who needs a wrench-slap to the balls?
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Postby athenabodicea on Sat Mar 18, 2006 12:08 am

Knowledge comes with responsibility to be wise
Power with the responsibility to heal
Vision with compassion for what is seen
I have learned to play the music of life
I have forsaken the option to play only for my own amusement

~Unknown~
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Postby Cabiria on Sat Mar 18, 2006 1:20 am

RaulMonkey wrote:3. Wal-Mart favours guys, not dolls.
Who needs a wrench-slap to the balls?

Stop stealing from Eliot's Wasteland. :twisted: (Actually, this poem made me giggle for quite a while. Continue, poet!)

athenabodicea wrote:Knowledge comes with responsibility to be wise
Power with the responsibility to heal
Vision with compassion for what is seen
I have learned to play the music of life
I have forsaken the option to play only for my own amusement

~Unknown~

I like this very much. Thanks for it. Here's my favorite Emily Dickinson poem:

Least Rivers -- docile to some sea.
My Caspian -- thee.
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Postby Adam Balm on Sat Mar 18, 2006 1:35 am

Cabiria wrote:I like this very much. Thanks for it. Here's my favorite Emily Dickinson poem:

Least Rivers -- docile to some sea.
My Caspian -- thee.


Mine:

The Brain—is wider than the Sky—
For—put them side by side—
The one the other will contain
With ease—and You—beside—

The Brain is deeper than the sea—
For—hold them—Blue to Blue—
The one the other will absorb—
As Sponges—Buckets—do—

The Brain is just the weight of God—
For—Heft them—Pound for Pound—
And they will differ—if they do—
As Syllable from Sound—
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Postby nodforlife on Sat Mar 18, 2006 6:20 am

papa loves mama
mama loves men
mama's in the graveyard
papa's in the pen
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Postby RaulMonkey on Sun Mar 19, 2006 4:50 am

Cabiria wrote:
RaulMonkey wrote:3. Wal-Mart favours guys, not dolls.
Who needs a wrench-slap to the balls?

Stop stealing from Eliot's Wasteland. :twisted:


Heh heh. I really did steal from Eliot in this piece from an uber-postmodern-for-its-own-sake series I did called "Postcard Poems":

"17. On 'Postcard Poem #16'" by RaulMonkey

This is the way
the world ends.
This is the way
the world ends.
THIS is the way
the world ends.
[crumple card and throw at audience].
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Postby athenabodicea on Mon Mar 20, 2006 10:24 am

nodforlife wrote:papa loves mama
mama loves men
mama's in the graveyard
papa's in the pen



Well the picture in the paper showed the scene real well
Papa's rig was buried in the local motel
The desk clerk said he saw it all real clear
He never hit the brakes and he was shifting gears



IPAMPILASH!!!!!
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Postby havocSchultz on Mon Mar 20, 2006 10:52 am

"The Moment of the Splash"

soaring through the moment that i happened
what the hell happened
my soul is trampled, flattened
and on the outside i smile
because th emasses haven opened
their mouths for the last time
a moment in time
scratch out the crime
from the record
and play it backwards
subliminal love songs
tattoed upon a requiem
and for those of you who think laziness equals genius
then i must be the shit
cause i feel like shit
and once again i'll quit
this business of velocity

...but you should see me move

and i'm consistently filled with such grace
so go fuck yourself
...and i like to stay up late to make amends

coasting through the element of my fall
in the fall
and i'm fucking it up and having a ball
these thoughts of horses are closing in
around me
and i'll run naked through the fields
facetious to the questions i field
and let's all just fuck the way i feel
hanging on the wall
is a care that i don't give
track lighting in my pants for the
sewing class to be enlightened
and together we dance in the mirror
my actions to mirror
fall through my semblance into the fear
that surrounds us to the elbows

...and one day you'll see my moves

and i'm consistently filled with such grace
so go fuck yourself
...and i like to stay up late to make amends

deny the wrath of a closet fuck
the synergy of cohesion
the waves crash down over me and
i can't seem to swallow enough death

but when i splash it doesn't ripple
or so they keep telling me

....and i've got some real great moves

and i'm consistently filled with such grace
so go fuck yourself
...and i like to stay up late to make amends

...i'll start sleeping when the can make me bend...



-havocSchultz



"Buckling into the Afterglow"

and i glow
so i tackle the light
it was making a face
of someone i once met
who wasn't acting like themselves
when we first met

i stradled the aftertaste
with a post demise pity feast
while onlookers are a cracked smile
through a rear-view fuck
and i can't seem to stuff my own
animals with a plush heart-beat

a toothy coital post seismic binge whore
she looked into my eyes
and i couldn't see a thing she said
hand signals to a paralyzed mime
i paint my face white
with your blood red purity
and a mammoth hammock wails on my
rape date comic bill fold fuck doll

she looked into the thoughts of a human groan.
a gorwn man under the weathered skirts
of a bulimic overeater bottom feeder on the beach
in September of the month we died in each other's arms
with smiles that lasted for never

and in the end i can't find
my way to words of oblivion when
i cave into your round-a-bout hurtfelt
meltdown circle-jerk
and in the end, i can't fuck
my way through the sewer emotion
tear drop finely tuned love triangle
of pain, suffering, and hate in the court jester's pants
of a doomed affair.

and in the end, all we fear is ourselves naked,
and fully clothed, and we can't seem
to figure out how to get back to where we ended
in the beginning...

and the time has come for me to wave the
sheets of a deaf lobster's blutness and
wade out to sea...

and whenever we die, i feel joy again...
and one day we'll glow again...

-havocSchultz




"Old mother hubbard,
went to the cupboard,
to get her dog a bone.

when she bent over,
rover took over,
and gave her a bone of his own"

-Andrew Dice Clay
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Postby RaulMonkey on Mon Mar 20, 2006 10:54 pm

Good work, havoc. Canadian poetry rules!
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Postby havocSchultz on Mon Mar 20, 2006 11:50 pm

RaulMonkey wrote:Good work, havoc. Canadian poetry rules!


whoo-hoo!!! thnx!!! viva la canuckleheads...
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Postby buster00 on Fri Apr 07, 2006 12:16 am

A pair from Michael O'Donoghue:

(Untitled)

Tea and coffee
Coffee and tea
Swim in the ocean
Drown in the sea.

Shade and shadow
Shadow and shade
Murder the mistress
Finger the maid.

**************

A g@y Irish priest in New Delhi
Tattooed the Lord's Prayer on his belly.
By the time that a Brahman
Read down to the "Amen,"
He'd blown both salvation and Kelly.
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Postby ONeillSG1 on Fri Apr 07, 2006 12:47 am

AT THAT HOUR WHEN ALL THINGS HAVE REPOSE
by: James Joyce (1882-1941)

AT that hour when all things have repose,
O lonely watcher of the skies,
Do you hear the night wind and the sighs
Of harps playing unto Love to unclose
The pale gates of sunrise?

When all things repose do you alone
Awake to hear the sweet harps play
To Love before him on his way,
And the night wind answering to antiphon
Till night is overgone?

Play on, invisible harps, unto Love,
Whose way in heaven is aglow
At that hour when soft lights come and go,
Soft sweet music in the air above
And in the earth below.
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Postby Nachokoolaid on Fri Apr 07, 2006 2:32 am

Poetry is cool. Thanks to poetry, I'm now a bit more wealthy. I just found out today that I got 1st place in my university's writing contest, and I get $100. WOOO HOOO.

And here's my favorite poem... probably.

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

-- E. A. Poe
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Postby Adam Balm on Fri Apr 07, 2006 3:20 pm

Nachokoolaid wrote:Poetry is cool. Thanks to poetry, I'm now a bit more wealthy. I just found out today that I got 1st place in my university's writing contest, and I get $100. WOOO HOOO.


Rock.

What did you write about? Any chance of us getting a look?
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Postby The Vicar on Fri Apr 07, 2006 4:25 pm

When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.

---Christina Rossetti ( sister of Dante Gabriel Rossetti)
.
........................................
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Postby RaulMonkey on Fri Apr 07, 2006 5:03 pm

havocSchultz wrote:
RaulMonkey wrote:Good work, havoc. Canadian poetry rules!


whoo-hoo!!! thnx!!! viva la canuckleheads...


On that note, an untitled (to the best of my knowledge) piece by Leonard Cohen. **

I think you are fools to speak French
It is a language which invites the mind
to rebel against itself causing inflamed ideas
grotesque postures and a theoretical approach
to common body functions. It ordains the soul
in a tacky priesthood devoted to the salvation
of a failed erection. It is the language
of cancer as it annexes the spirit and
installs a tumor in every honeycomb
Between the rotten teeth of French are incubated
the pettiest notions of destiny and the shabbiest
versions of glory and the dreariest dogma of change
ever to pollute the simplicity of human action
French is a carnival mirror in which the
brachycephalic idiot is affirmed and encouraged
to compose a manifesto on the destruction of the sideshow

I think you are fools to speak English
I know what you are thinking when you speak English
You are thinking piggy English thoughts
you sterilized swine of a language that has no genitals
You are peepee and kaka and nothing else
and therefore the lovers die in all your songs
You can't fool me you cradle of urine
where Jesus Christ was finally put to sleep
and even the bowels of Satan cannot find
a decent place to stink in your flat rhythms
of ambition and disease
English, I know you, you are frightened by saliva
your adventure is the glass bricks of sociology
you are German with a license to kill

I hate you but it is not in English
I love you but it is not in French
I speak to the devil but it is not about your Punishment
I speak to the table but it is not about your plan
I kneel between the legs of the moon
in a vehicle of perfect stuttering
and you dare to interview me on the matter
of your loathsome destinies
you poor boobies of the north
who have set out for heaven with your mouths on fire
Surrender now surrender to each other
your lovliest useless aspects
and live with me in this and other voices
like the wind harps you were meant to be
Come and sleep in the mother tongue
and be awakened by a virgin
(O dead-hearted turds of particular speech)
be awakened by a virgin
into a sovereign state of common grace
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Postby Ribbons on Fri Apr 07, 2006 6:27 pm

For your edification, a poem by Ribbons:

An eye,
The sky,
A bee

Your bed,
The moon,
Me.

Thank you, and keep an eye out for my collection of poems, Me Myself & Ribbons, which I'm currently shopping around to publishers.
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Postby athenabodicea on Fri Apr 14, 2006 12:07 pm

NOTHING GOLD CAN STAY

Nature's first green is gold
her hardest hue to hold
her early leaves a flower
but only for an hour
then leaf subsides to leaf
so Eden sank to grief
so dawn goes down today
nothing gold can stay

~Robert Frost~

I felt like posting this since I saw The Outsiders last weekend....
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Postby Nachokoolaid on Sat Apr 22, 2006 5:22 pm

Adam Balm wrote:
Nachokoolaid wrote:Poetry is cool. Thanks to poetry, I'm now a bit more wealthy. I just found out today that I got 1st place in my university's writing contest, and I get $100. WOOO HOOO.


Rock.

What did you write about? Any chance of us getting a look?


I'm usually very shy with my stuff, but since you asked, here you go. It's sort of me looking back on my childhood with adult eyes. I took a somewhat cliched phrase and gave it a little power (these are the judges words, not mine).

***

Rain

The rain fell on her flowers.
I watched my Grandma’s rosebushes
Collect little droplets like an iced tea left on the dinner table.
Although the beads would often resist each other
Like two awkward teens on a first date,
Something eventually drove them together—forming one,
And they’d fall.

It tinged on the tin roof of the porch
Where I sat that summer afternoon
As my dog, Toby, helped me eat a Popsicle.
“God must be crying,â€
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Postby Nachokoolaid on Thu Apr 27, 2006 4:04 pm

For any and all interested in poetry, I've just discovered Yusef Komunyakaa. Reminds me of Neruda a bit. Anyway, I love this poem, especially how the perfect hunger for each other made them the oldest song in any god's throat. Wow, that's passion. I love that line. Check it out.


Providence
Yusef Komunyakaa

I walked away with your face
stolen from a crowded room,
& the sting of requited memory
lived beneath my skin. A name
raw on my tongue, in my brain, a glimpse
nestled years later like a red bird
among wet leaves on a dull day.

A face. The tilt of a head. Dark
lipstick. Aletheia. The unknown
marked on a shoulder, night
weather in our heads.
I pushed out of this half-stunned
yes, begging light, beyond the caul's
shadow, dangling the lifeline of Oh.

I took seven roads to get here
& almost died three times.
How many near misses before
new days slouched into the left corner
pocket, before the hanging fruit
made me kneel? I crossed
five times in the blood to see

the plots against the future—
descendent of a house that knows
all my strong & weak points.
No bounty of love apples glistened
with sweat, a pear-shaped lute
plucked in the valley of the tuber rose
& Madonna lily. Your name untied

every knot in my body, a honey-eating
animal reflected in shop windows
& twinned against this underworld.
Out of tide-lull & upwash
a perfect hunger slipped in
tooled by an eye, & this morning
makes us the oldest song in any god's throat.

We had gone back walking
on our hands. Opened by a kiss,
by fingertips on the Abyssinian
stem & nape, we bloomed
from underneath stone. Moon-pulled
fish skirted the gangplank,
a dung-scented ark of gopherwood.

Now, you are on my skin, in my mouth
& hair as if you were always
woven in my walk, a rib
unearthed like a necklace of sand dollars
out of black hush. You are a call
& response going back to the first
praise-lament, the old wish

made flesh. The two of us
a third voice, an incantation
sweet-talked & grunted out of The Hawk's
midnight horn. I have you inside
a hard question, & it won't let go,
hooked through the gills & strung up
to the western horizon. We are one,

burning with belief till the thing
inside the cage whimpers
& everything crazes out to a flash
of silver. Begged into the studly juice
of promises, our embrace is a naked
wing lifting us into premonition
worked down to a sigh & plea.
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Postby Ribbons on Thu Apr 27, 2006 4:09 pm

Nachokoolaid wrote:
Adam Balm wrote:
Nachokoolaid wrote:Poetry is cool. Thanks to poetry, I'm now a bit more wealthy. I just found out today that I got 1st place in my university's writing contest, and I get $100. WOOO HOOO.


Rock.

What did you write about? Any chance of us getting a look?


I'm usually very shy with my stuff, but since you asked, here you go. It's sort of me looking back on my childhood with adult eyes. I took a somewhat cliched phrase and gave it a little power (these are the judges words, not mine).

***

Rain

The rain fell on her flowers.
I watched my Grandma’s rosebushes
Collect little droplets like an iced tea left on the dinner table.
Although the beads would often resist each other
Like two awkward teens on a first date,
Something eventually drove them together—forming one,
And they’d fall.

It tinged on the tin roof of the porch
Where I sat that summer afternoon
As my dog, Toby, helped me eat a Popsicle.
“God must be crying,â€
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Postby Nachokoolaid on Thu Apr 27, 2006 4:28 pm

Ribbons wrote: You know, believe me when I say I've had to read through a lot of student poetry about reflections on childhood. I'm pretty sure that I can say with confidence that yours is the best one I've ever read.


For you to poop on?

Please don't tell me that's the next post.

If you're serious, then :shock: , and seriously, thank you.
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Postby Ribbons on Thu Apr 27, 2006 5:05 pm

Nachokoolaid wrote:
Ribbons wrote: You know, believe me when I say I've had to read through a lot of student poetry about reflections on childhood. I'm pretty sure that I can say with confidence that yours is the best one I've ever read.


For you to poop on?

Please don't tell me that's the next post.

If you're serious, then :shock: , and seriously, thank you.


No, don't worry, I wasn't messing with you. I liked it a lot.
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Postby Adam Balm on Thu Apr 27, 2006 8:25 pm

Okay, I'm flipping through Walt Whitman here and I see the following:

WHEN I HEARD THE LEARN'D ASTRONOMER
by Walt Whitman


WHEN I heard the learn'd astronomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,
When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wander'd off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars.



And I say to myself "Self, Walt Whitman aint half bad." And then I see the title 'O Hymen!' and I get curious.

O HYMEN! O HYMENEE
by Walt Whitman


O HYMEN! O hymenee! why do you tantalize me thus?
O why sting me for a swift moment only?
Why can you not continue? O why do you now cease?
Is it because if you continued beyond the swift moment you would soon certainly kill me?









Okay, Walt Whitman is a sick fuck...
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Postby Adam Balm on Mon May 01, 2006 8:59 pm

Yes, I realize this has the word 'balm' in the poem. Har har.


---------


"Mild is the Parting Year"
by Walter Savage Landor

Mild is the parting year, and sweet
The odour of the falling spray;
Life passes on more rudely fleet,
And balmless is its closing day.

I wait its close, I court its gloom,
But mourn that never must there fall
Or on my breast or on my tomb
The tear that would have soothed it all.
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Postby Carolian on Tue May 02, 2006 9:08 am

"16-bit Intel 8088 Chip" by Charles Bukowski.

with an Apple Macintosh
you can't run Radio Shack programs
in its disc drive.
nor can a Commodore 64
drive read a file
you have created on an
IBM Personal Computer.
both Kaypro and Osborne computers use
the CP/M operating system
but can't read each other's
handwriting
for they format (write
on) discs in different
ways.
the Tandy 2000 runs MS-DOS but
can't use most programs produced for
the IBM Personal Computer
unless certain
bits and bytes are
altered
but the wind still blows over
Savannah
and in the Spring
the turkey buzzard struts and
flounces before his
hens.
The whole world's wild at heart and weird on top.

This is a snakeskin jacket. And for me it's a symbol of my individuality, and my belief... in personal freedom.
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Postby wonkabar on Fri May 05, 2006 7:30 pm

The night is soft, and I am feeling sane.
But who put these snakes on the MOTHERFUCKING PLANE


- Saffy
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Postby Seppuku on Mon May 08, 2006 1:16 pm

Carolian wrote:"16-bit Intel 8088 Chip" by Charles Bukowski.

with an Apple Macintosh
you can't run Radio Shack programs
in its disc drive.
nor can a Commodore 64
drive read a file
you have created on an
IBM Personal Computer.
both Kaypro and Osborne computers use
the CP/M operating system
but can't read each other's
handwriting
for they format (write
on) discs in different
ways.
the Tandy 2000 runs MS-DOS but
can't use most programs produced for
the IBM Personal Computer
unless certain
bits and bytes are
altered
but the wind still blows over
Savannah
and in the Spring
the turkey buzzard struts and
flounces before his
hens.


You know I love Buk/Chinaski etc. etc. as much as the next guy, but he could do that formal speak a little too well. It almost makes you wonder if there's a Postmaster General inside of him just bursting to get out. In most of his books there's always going to be a few pages where, for little reason other than getting his own rocks off, he'll break-out into some strange scat like: "And further more in re: to the date of August 18th through to August 20th, by way of the 19th, the point should be made that one should expect some future reference made on the topic to which we allude". He does that shit scary good. I guess he figures it's a break from his usual drunken rape fantasies.
Dale Tremont Presents...

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Postby buster00 on Sat May 13, 2006 8:11 am

This was included in a review of Van Morrison's Astral Weeks by the late lamented Lester Bangs.


My heart of silk
is filled with lights,
with lost bells,
with lilies and bees.
I will go very far,
farther than those hills,
farther than the seas,
close to the stars,
to beg Christ the Lord
to give back the soul I had
of old, when I was a child,
ripened with legends,
with a feathered cap
and a wooden sword.

Federico Garcia Lorca
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Postby Peven on Sat May 13, 2006 12:24 pm

Dive
into the complicated
Don't
become domesticated.
If you're afraid to be alone
look inside and find your home.
Always there
hallways leading up your stairs
Follow
up to find your light
free of pride, give up your fight
against your fear
against your shame
you're only holding onto pain.
Because
Illusions
of control are
Delusions
of your soul
leading you on
building false hope
bleeding your strength
until you're hung
at the end of your rope.
Infinite
tomorrows
the only definite is sorrow
here and now is where you find
real happiness
true peace of mind
hold it close, take it to heart
the future may tear it apart.
So
follow your lead
with conviction
without remorse and its constriction
Allow
your needs to be realized
to run their course uncomprimised.
When you feed your inner fire
you'll light the way to your desires.
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Postby Adam Balm on Fri May 19, 2006 1:40 am

It Couldn't Be Done
by Edgar A. Guest

Somebody said that it couldn't be done,
But he with a chuckle replied
That "maybe it couldn't", but he would be one
Who wouldn't say so till he tried.
So he buckled right in with a trace of a grin
On his face. If he worried he hid it.
He started to sing as he tackled the thing,
That couldn't be done and he did it.

Somebody scoffed: "Oh, you'll never do that;
At least no one ever has done it";
But he took off his coat and he took off his hat,
And the first thing we knew he'd begun it.
With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,
Without any doubting or quiddit,
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn't be done, and he did it.

There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,
There are thousands to prophesy failure;
There are thousands to point out to you, one by one,
The dangers that wait to assail you.
But just buckle in with a bit of a grin
Just take off your coat and go to it.
Just start to sing as you tackle the thing
That "cannot be done," and you'll do it.

- Edgar A. Guest
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Postby BuckyO'harre on Mon May 22, 2006 7:10 pm

Ode to Spot-

Felis Cattus, is your taxonomic nomenclature,
an endothermic quadruped carnivorous by nature?
Your visual, olfactory and auditory senses
contribute to your hunting skills, and natural defenses.

I find myself intrigued by your subvocal oscillations,
a singular development of cat communications
that obviates your basic hedonistic predilection
for a rhythmic stroking of your fur, to demonstrate affection.

A tail is quite essential for your acrobatic talents;
you would not be so agile if you lacked its counterbalance.
And when not being utilized to aide in locomotion,
it often serves to illustrate the state of your emotion.

O Spot, the complex levels of behaviour you display
connote a fairly well-developed cognitive array.
And though you are not sentient, Spot, and do not comprehend,
I nonetheless consider you a true and valued friend. -Lt. Commander Data
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Postby RaulMonkey on Sun Jul 09, 2006 10:44 pm

In the 'When's The Last Time You Got Laid...?' thread from the EFBR, Flumm wrote:Of course, it would also be a weak and convoluted string of mumbled sentences and broken consonants, when the Mounty's are working your fillings with their home made, canadian pine whittled knuckle dusters behind the bus station, for stalking and leaving creepy and sinister, light night "poetry gift baskets" outside the window of Sue-Anne the precinct dinner lady's little cousin...

Yes, yes, I can see THAT all to clearly, too, mm?

Sigh, this being the EFBR though... I don't know whether to wish you luck, or to just call the cops already...


Heh, yeah, I thought that my first paragraph could be read totally creepy...

RaulMonkey wrote:The whole thing with the cute Asian chick I have intentions toward started with her crushing on me. She's too shy to say anything to me except for times when she came into the movie theatre where I was working and bought tickets from me, but I divined the fact nevertheless.


Like, she doesn't know it yet, but she is desperately in love with me. I'll make her realize it. She'll come around with a little... convincing...

It reminds me of this poem I did one time called "The Curtain", about a stalker who watches a chick through her window. **

I love Susannah,
That much is certain.
I love this pretty woman
Somewhere through the curtain.

I see her when I dream,
I see her in the stars.
I see her face to face,
And yet the curtain jars.

My dear one and I
Have made the cosmic rounds.
Here and there we are,
Though here the curtain bounds.

Yes, we're supernal,
But where's the superficial?
Her everyday body
On a curtain sacrificial.

**

The only thing is, I swear to God that I didn't mean for it to be about a stalker when I wrote it! The curtain was supposed to be symbolic of the caul of nervousness that can exist between two people. My friend commented on it later and I was like, ooh, yeah, shit! I guess it is about a stalker! CREEPY!
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Postby Eunuch Provocateur on Thu Jul 27, 2006 8:48 pm

two kinds of hell
Charles Bukowski

I sat in the same bar for 7 years, from 5 a.m.
(the day bartender let me in 2 hours early)
to 2 a.m.

sometimes I didn't even remember going back
to my room

it were as if I were sitting on the barstool
forever

I had no money but the drinks kept
arriving
to them I wasn't the bar clown
but the bar fool
but at times a fool will find a greater
fool to
admire him,
and,
it was a crowded
place

actually, I had a viewpoint: I was waiting for
something extraordinary to
happen

but as the years wasted on
nothing ever did unless I
caused it:

broken bar mirrors, a fight with a 7 foot
giant, a dalliance with a lesbian, many things
like the ability to call a spade a spade and to
settle arguments that I did not
begin and etc. and etc. and etc.

one day I just upped and left the
place

like that

and I began to drink alone and I found the company
quite all right

then, as if the gods were bored with my peace at
heart, knocks began upon my door: ladies
the gods had sent the ladies to the
fool

and the ladies arrived one at a time and when it ended with
one
the gods immediately--without allowing me any respite--sent
another

and each began as a flash of miracle--even the bed--and the
good ended up
bad

my fault, of course, yes, that's what they told
me

but I remembered the 7 years in the bar, I hardly ever bedded
down with anybody

the gods just won't let a man drink alone, they are jealous of
his simple strength and salvation, they will send the lady
knocking upon that door
I remember all those cheap hotels, it were as if the women
were one: the delicate little rap on the wood and then:
"oh, I heard you playing that music on your radio...we're
neighbors, I'm down at 603 but I've never even seen you in
the hall..."

"come on in..."

and there go your balls and your sanctity, Men's Liberation,
they say, is not needed
and then you remember the bar
when you walked up behind the 7 foot giant and knocked his
cowboy hat off his head, yelling:
"I'll bet you sucked your mother's nipples until you were
12 years old!"

somebody in the bar saying: "hey, sir, forget it, he's a mental
case, he's an asshole, he doesn't know what he is
saying!"

"I know EXACTLY what I am saying and I'll say it again:
I'll bet you sucked..."

he won but you didn't die, not at all the way you died when the
gods arranged to get all those ladies knocking and you went for
the first flash of miracle

the other fight was more fair: he was slow, stupid and even a
little bit frightened and it went well for quite a good while,
just like with the ladies those gods
sent

the difference being, I thought I had a chance with the
ladies
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Postby Ribbons on Fri Aug 25, 2006 5:07 pm

Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let "be" be finale of seem.
The only emperor, is the emperor of ice-cream.

Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam:
The only emperor, is the emperor of ice-cream.
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Postby darkjedijaina on Fri Aug 25, 2006 6:18 pm

A Dark Jedi Jaina original: [spoken in the same manner Gene Wilder speaks whilst aboard the boat in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory]

my moods have been swinging up and down,
all around.
it's mostly due to stress,
the stress, i stress it's the stress,
or maybe lack of food..
lack of sunlight,
lack of anything finite...
sometimes i feel as if i cannot breathe,
what's come over me?
do i dare to see?
or will i stay inside tucked underneath the covers?
something big hovers...
a looming shadow..
it awaits.
do i speak or hesitate?
my mind..it tries to postulate..
i fear the fear will gravitate!
WAIT! ....
oh nevermind.
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Postby darkjedijaina on Fri Aug 25, 2006 8:46 pm

here's another Dark Jedi Jaina original:

alone
in a crowded room
she tugs against her sleeve
biting on her lower lip
hoping you wont see
the scars
that she tries to hide
broken, hurt, her skin won't lie
still hoping you won't see

cuz she's

the president of her class
that smile of hers has got to last
she's the
lead actress in the play
but no one knows
she never leaves the stage
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Postby Brocktune on Fri Sep 01, 2006 10:42 pm

ripped straight from the pages of this months MAD magazine comes this painfully accurate poetic sendup of american baseball. its funny because its true.

Barry at the Bat
by: Frank Jacobs

The baseball season sparkled back in 1998
With home runs being clouted at a most prestigious rate
The Maris season record was surpassed by Mark McGwire
Which joyous fans declared was an achievement to admire

But Barry Bonds, though still a star, was filled with rage and spite
He'd been eclipsed by someone else - what's worse, the dude was white
He nosed around and soon would find Big Mac had joined the frat
Of jocks who knew that steroids could enhance each time at bat

Big bashers got the headlines now, the rest were out of date
No sweat, the folks at BALCO Labs stepped smartly to the plate
For Bonds, their line of "nutrients" would surely help him out
To beef him up till he became the latest King of Clout

In just a year the world would see a brand new Barry Bonds
Rebuilt with with hormone shots and pills and special creams (not Ponds)
Great muscles he displayed, with wondrous delts and pecs and abs
The pride of San Francisco, not to mention BALCO Labs

A new day dawned for Bonds and soon he'd break McGwire's mark
His homers streaking through the sky and out of Pac Bell Park
Fans marveled at his new found strength, the fastballs that he drove
Which landed with a wondrous splash into McCovey Cove

He'd earn a slew of MVP's, be hailed an all time great
But trouble was now brewing - some would call it "Steroidgate"
Jose Canseco authored "Juiced", which gave us our first clue
Big Mac was outed in the book, oh yes, and Barry too

Commissioner Bud Selig vowed that he would set things right
Then dropped the ball, as once again, he'd prove to be "Bud Light"
As for the Players Union, their response was crystal clear
Do nothing, and then pray to God the mess would disappear

The scandal moved to Congress, where top sluggers testified
Viagra shill Palmeiro stood erect and firmly lied
Big Mac bemoaned, "What's past is past" and shrugged off any blame
Said Sosa, "No comprende," packed his bags and quit the game

The Feds took aim at BALCO and in their court case was heard
The bigwigs both got jail terms, making "roids" a dirty word
Though Sheffield and a host of other sluggers were exposed
'Twas Barry Bonds who led the list with crimes not yet disclosed

But once again the league would take a wishy-washy stand
That is, until the hot book "Game of Shadows" rocked the land
Bud Selig, still a bumbling wuss, at last would intervene
And swore he'd nail juicers till the sport was squeaky clean

The headlines now belonged to Bonds, outdistancing Big Mac
More talked about him than Britney Spears, gas prices, or Iraq
ESPN aired "Bonds on Bonds" a serving of pure pap
How nice to see his "softer side" without that steroid crap

To Giants fans he still remains a hero to acclaim
An icon of the grand old game who'll make the Hall of Fame
Those filthy steroid rumors cannot possibly be true
His talent merely proves what healthy exercise can do

But on the road, not many "Welcome" banners are in sight
Fans toss syringes on the field and seldom are polite
"Bonds sucks!" proclaim the signs in Cincinnati and L.A.
"You f*&#ing cheat!" is often heard at Wrigley Field and Shea

He now has edged the Babe for homers hit in a career
And looks to pass Hank Aaron sometime later in the year
Should that day come, in his hometown, he'll get a rousing cheer
But elsewhere in the league, you'll hear "Don't let it happen here."

Oh somewhere there are atheletes with a passion for the truth
Who play the game with honor, hallowed by our nations youth
And somewhere jocks command respect, of that we have no doubt
But there's little joy in baseball - Barry Bonds has been found out.
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Postby Peven on Sun Oct 01, 2006 3:25 pm

I'm soaring high in clear blue weather
I'm by your side floating light as a feather,
you're here in my dreams
shining bright in the sky
lifting me up and together we fly
straight into the sun
as two become one
Forever

I'm soaring high no matter the weather
'cause you're by my side and I'm light as a feather
You are all that i dream
shining bright in the sky
love lifting us up and together we fly
straight into the sun
two burning as one
Forever

Come soaring high above dark stormy weather
floating by my side as a light as a feather
I'll be there in your dreams
shining bright in your sky
lifting you up and together we'll fly
to the heart of the sun
our own beating as one
Forever
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Postby Peven on Sun Oct 01, 2006 4:20 pm

When the sun comes up tomorrow
not all will see the light
Too many mothers' sorrow
while too many sons go fight

What parents forget
their children repeat
traveling down the same old street
with good intention
and much pretention
the old send the young despite contention

When the sun comes up tomorrow
not all will see the light
so many futures borrowed
to prove so few were right

For the parents who've fallen
their children shed tears
their painful cries fall on leaders' deaf ears
men who trivialize
as they try to rationalize
why they choose to spend so many young lives.
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Postby athenabodicea on Sun Oct 01, 2006 4:22 pm

Those are really nice Peven...
Did you write them yourself??
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Postby Peven on Sun Oct 01, 2006 4:27 pm

thanks. and yeah, i wrote them. i have a little black book with me poems in it. :wink: :D on an earlier page in this thread i put up a couple others.
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Postby athenabodicea on Sun Oct 01, 2006 4:48 pm

Peven wrote:thanks. and yeah, i wrote them. i have a little black book with me poems in it. :wink: :D on an earlier page in this thread i put up a couple others.


Very cool.... And beautiful words...
I have a black book full of poems too...

I dont really like to share them though...
I feel very vulnerable when I share them & so I only share them with very few people...

I posted one of mine up here & then I deleted it from remorse & paranoia... lol

I think there is one of my poems lurking around here somewhere.. :roll:
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Postby Peven on Sun Oct 01, 2006 5:08 pm

athenabodicea wrote:
Peven wrote:thanks. and yeah, i wrote them. i have a little black book with me poems in it. :wink: :D on an earlier page in this thread i put up a couple others.


Very cool.... And beautiful words...
I have a black book full of poems too...

I dont really like to share them though...
I feel very vulnerable when I share them & so I only share them with very few people...

I posted one of mine up here & then I deleted it from remorse & paranoia... lol

I think there is one of my poems lurking around here somewhere.. :roll:



how embarrasing. while going through the thread looking for one of your poems i saw that i had already posted one of the poems i just put up. :oops: anyway, i never did find one of yours, unless you go by "unknown". :wink:

i know what you mean by being self conscious in sharing what you write, because it is letting people see what is inside. but as you have seen on here, i am one who pretty much lets it all hang out and wear my heart on my sleeve, for better or worse. what holds me back from posting some poems on here i have written is that i don't feel they are good enough, ....yet. i am a believer in what one of my better english professors used to say, "writing is never finished, it is just due".
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Postby athenabodicea on Sun Oct 01, 2006 5:18 pm

Peven wrote: how embarrasing. while going through the thread looking for one of your poems i saw that i had already posted one of the poems i just put up. :oops: anyway, i never did find one of yours, unless you go by "unknown". :wink:


Well I didnt remember having read either one of the poems you just put up. So, even if I had already read it, I still enjoyed it as if it were the first time I read them again...

As for mine.. It could have been put up in another thread... or
maybe I deleted it... lol


Peven wrote: i know what you mean by being self conscious in sharing what you write, because it is letting people see what is inside. but as you have seen on here, i am one who pretty much lets it all hang out and wear my heart on my sleeve, for better or worse. what holds me back from posting some poems on here i have written is that i don't feel they are good enough, ....yet. i am a believer in what one of my better english professors used to say, "writing is never finished, it is just due".


Truer words could not have been spoken...
I am generally like you when you say you wear your heart on your sleeve.. I am always saying too much..

But for some reason my poems.. rather, sharing my poems really make me feel awkward and vulnerable.. Two feelings that I rarely experience in real life... I dont know... I guess I just think of them as something for me, from me.... Maybe I'm paranoid someone will try to steal my words or maybe I'm afraid no one will understand my words... Not sure..
I just know that I get kind of freaked out whenever I share them..

So, thanks for sharing yours...
They really are beautiful & it's nice to see another side of you...
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Postby Peven on Sun Oct 01, 2006 5:44 pm

athenabodicea wrote:
Peven wrote: how embarrasing. while going through the thread looking for one of your poems i saw that i had already posted one of the poems i just put up. :oops: anyway, i never did find one of yours, unless you go by "unknown". :wink:


Well I didnt remember having read either one of the poems you just put up. So, even if I had already read it, I still enjoyed it as if it were the first time I read them again...

As for mine.. It could have been put up in another thread... or
maybe I deleted it... lol


Peven wrote: i know what you mean by being self conscious in sharing what you write, because it is letting people see what is inside. but as you have seen on here, i am one who pretty much lets it all hang out and wear my heart on my sleeve, for better or worse. what holds me back from posting some poems on here i have written is that i don't feel they are good enough, ....yet. i am a believer in what one of my better english professors used to say, "writing is never finished, it is just due".


Truer words could not have been spoken...
I am generally like you when you say you wear your heart on your sleeve.. I am always saying too much..

But for some reason my poems.. rather, sharing my poems really make me feel awkward and vulnerable.. Two feelings that I rarely experience in real life... I dont know... I guess I just think of them as something for me, from me.... Maybe I'm paranoid someone will try to steal my words or maybe I'm afraid no one will understand my words... Not sure..
I just know that I get kind of freaked out whenever I share them..

So, thanks for sharing yours...
They really are beautiful & it's nice to see another side of you...



awww shucks. :oops: :wink:


i actually write a lot of my poems with the pipe dream that they could be songs. also, it isn't uncommon for me to end up being reflective or extistential in my writing, like many others, it is a kind of therapy and way to deal with life. example;


The point in life when I knew it all
I didn't think I would ever fall
flat on my face in my own mistakes
see my luck run out or feel my heart break

A river to cross, a mountain to climb
so much to do with so little time
Life is a circus and I've been a clown
playing the fool with tears rolling down

I still have a dream of good things to come
when my time arrives to shine in the sun
I'll keep it alive and make it come true
hope will survive as my soul is renewed

(refrain)
I've stumbled along the way
tripped by mistakes that i have made
I've paid the price
for all thats due
sometimes paid twice
but I've come through
so I'll go on
writing my songs
and sometimes I'll sing the blues
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Postby athenabodicea on Sun Oct 01, 2006 6:09 pm

Peven wrote:awww shucks. :oops: :wink:


i actually write a lot of my poems with the pipe dream that they could be songs. also, it isn't uncommon for me to end up being reflective or extistential in my writing, like many others, it is a kind of therapy and way to deal with life. example;


The point in life when I knew it all
I didn't think I would ever fall
flat on my face in my own mistakes
see my luck run out or feel my heart break

A river to cross, a mountain to climb
so much to do with so little time
Life is a circus and I've been a clown
playing the fool with tears rolling down

I still have a dream of good things to come
when my time arrives to shine in the sun
I'll keep it alive and make it come true
hope will survive as my soul is renewed

(refrain)
I've stumbled along the way
tripped by mistakes that i have made
I've paid the price
for all thats due
sometimes paid twice
but I've come through
so I'll go on
writing my songs
and sometimes I'll sing the blues


Once again... very nice.. thought provoking... profound....
Do you write music?
Do you play an instrument??
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Postby Peven on Sun Oct 01, 2006 6:18 pm

athenabodicea wrote:
Peven wrote:awww shucks. :oops: :wink:


i actually write a lot of my poems with the pipe dream that they could be songs. also, it isn't uncommon for me to end up being reflective or extistential in my writing, like many others, it is a kind of therapy and way to deal with life. example;


The point in life when I knew it all
I didn't think I would ever fall
flat on my face in my own mistakes
see my luck run out or feel my heart break

A river to cross, a mountain to climb
so much to do with so little time
Life is a circus and I've been a clown
playing the fool with tears rolling down

I still have a dream of good things to come
when my time arrives to shine in the sun
I'll keep it alive and make it come true
hope will survive as my soul is renewed

(refrain)
I've stumbled along the way
tripped by mistakes that i have made
I've paid the price
for all thats due
sometimes paid twice
but I've come through
so I'll go on
writing my songs
and sometimes I'll sing the blues


Once again... very nice..
Do you write music?
Do you play an instrument??


thats the weak spot in the plan. i don't play an instrument and can't even read sheet music. :roll: :oops: still, one can dream. i have sent of my poems/songs into the VH1 Save the Music contest in the lyric category and won an honorable mention. my hope is that i will bump into somone some day and it will be a "hey, you got lyrics in my music", "no, you got music in my lyrics", but that not withstanding, writing is at least something that certainly helps pass the time.

so, isn't there at least one or two of yours that you feel comfortable enough in sharing with the rest of the class?
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