Share Poetry!

[In Dust and Ashes]

share poems you've written or ones that you like by others.

heres one i wrote a couple of days ago. spring is on my mind and it makes me happy:

Yellow Sun Soft
almost white
almost
like water
falling down
Soft
like a whisper
like a breath
spreading fragrance
sun fragrance
like a kiss
like a smile
like a Soft hug
encouraging
surrounding
lulling
shy and
humbly
beconning me
to lie down.


yeah yeah, it's cheezy, hush.

now share yours!

[Kinbote]

I dislike poetry, but I do love Larkin; this is an obvious choice, which diminishes it in no way at all.

This be the verse

They fuck you up, your mom and dad
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-stylen hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can
And don't have any kids yourself.

[Telegram Sam]

fantastic poem, for sure

[Atomsk Iscariot]

and the mirror is only reflecting grey space.

or, perhaps, you-
sans your magnificent
displacement

where we were all just
leaves reappearing
in your spitless palms

just moths resigning our
names to the wet light

so we could finally
sleep.

[In Dust and Ashes]

translation!

[In Dust and Ashes]

thank you.

[Feeling Brackish]

Collagen oozed sullenly
Creeping quietly
Toward the corner
Of her beautiful mouth
And now I stood, Shocked
My mouth hung open
As if I'd just seen
My mother stabbed
As I realized
What I had mistaken
For beauty
Was nothing more
Than an illusion
Mocking my very concept
Of reality
Shock was suddenly
And deliberately
Replaced by rage
As I smashed the thought
Into countless fractions
Of a whole image
Within my mind
And yet the picture
Is so neatly and perfectly
Burned into my
One healthy retina
A strong feeling
Overcomes me
I realize I'll never
See anything
The same again
I am hurt
Ashamed
And changed

[Barbara]

written right now, cause I wanna go home and it's a good waste of time. No title. Almost more a collection of thoughts than a poem.


People are surrounded by people and dreams;
Fantasies of what if, I wonder, what might have been.
The faces of strangers, a glimpse and then forgotton.
Faces of friends and family, comforting recognition.

How heavy a burden it would be to know
All the names of the people your eyes meet with,
Before glancing at the floor.

Already you feel yourself breaking
Under the weight of your worries, and those you worry for.
Cry out in despair, say a prayer, beg to be loved, beg to be free.
The hopes and dreams of all share the same sky
With our sinister clouds of guilt and fear.

We are a breath away from truly knowing ourselves and each other,
But the dream evaporates like a warm wind in winter.
I have dreamt of a life that is not my own,
A better life, a life with everything I'm not,
Perhaps I am dreaming of another person's life,
Who does not appreciate the dream life I would sleep forever to enjoy.

But if I dream of a different life, of myself as a different person,
How can I ever know what I really am, and be glad of it?
As long as my heart beats, I will never be anyone else.
If my future is doomed to be inferior to my fantasy,
Then surely I must be doomed as well.

Yet if the years were to pass, and I were to grow wise,
Successful, respected, admired, and adored;
Would I blissfully revel in my dream come true?
Or bitterly cry for my former life,
The young dreamer that could never be brought back?

[Atomsk Iscariot]

Sheep in Fog
Sylvia Plath

The hills step off into whiteness.
People or stars
Regard me sadly, I disappoint them.

The train leaves a line of breath.
O slow
Horse the colour of rust,

Hooves, dolorous bells----
All morning the
Morning has been blackening,

A flower left out.
My bones hold a stillness, the far
Fields melt my heart.

They threaten
To let me through to a heaven
Starless and fatherless, a dark water.

[Kinbote]

Doesn't ANYONE like rhyme or consistent meter?

[Barbara]

here's one that rhymes from Peter S. Beagle. It's pretty much about the same thing I was talking about in yesterday's poem, but he conveys the idea with just a few simple lines.

_______


If I danced with my feet
As I dance in my dreaming,
As graceful and gleaming
As death in diguise;
Ah, that would be sweet.
But then would I hunger
To be ten years younger,
Or wedded, or wise?

[revgoozen]

Originally posted by UncleLester
Doesn't ANYONE like rhyme or consistent meter?

rarely.

[Barbara]

Another by Peter S. Beagle. Some rhyme & meter for yo ass...

When I was a young man, and very well thought of
I couldn't ask aught that the ladies denied.
I nibbled their hearts like a handful of raisins,
And I never spoke love but I knew that I lied.

But I said to myself "Ah, they none of them know
The secret I shelter and savor and save.
I wait for the one who will see through my seeming,
And I'll know when I love by the way I behave."

The years drifted over like clouds in the heavens.
The ladies went by me like snow on the wind.
I charmed and I cheated, deceived and dissembled,
And I sinned and I sinned and I sinned and I sinned.

But I said to myself, "Ah, they none of them see
There's part of me pure as the whisk of a wave.
My lady is late, but she'll find I've been faithful
And I'll know when I love by the way I behave."

At last came a lady both knowing and tender,
Saying "you're not at all what they take you to be."
I betrayed her before she had quite finished speaking,
And she swallowed cold poison and jumped in the sea.

And I say to myself, when there's time for a word,
As I gracefully grow more debauched and depraved:
"Ah, love may be strong, but a habit is stronger,
And I knew when I loved by the way I behaved."

[In Dust and Ashes]

Originally posted by UncleLester
Doesn't ANYONE like rhyme or consistent meter?

I miss it! too many people do free verse these days. it makes me sad. if I was only good enough to ryhm and use rythem, I'd so do it.

[Nak Nak]

Tyger ! Tyger !

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze thy fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And why thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors grasp?

When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

William Blake.

[In Dust and Ashes]

Originally posted by Nak Nak
Tyger ! Tyger !

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze thy fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And why thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors grasp?

When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

William Blake.

wonderful poem. I love that one. have you ever read Little Lamb?

[Nak Nak]

Originally posted by hambakmeritru
wonderful poem. I love that one. have you ever read Little Lamb?

nope, post it?

[In Dust and Ashes]

The Lamb
William Blake

Little Lamb, who made thee
Does thou know who made thee
Gave thee life & bid thee feed.
By the stream & o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing woolly bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice.
Making all the vales rejoice:
Little Lamb who made thee
Does thou know who made thee

Little Lamb I'll tell thee,
Little Lamb I'll tell thee;
He is called by thy name,
For he calls himself a Lamb:
He is meek & he is mild,
He became a little child
I a child & thou a lamb,
We are called by His name,
Little Lamb God bless thee,
Little Lamb God bless thee.


these poems are supposed to compliment eachother.
but this one is much lesser known than tyger tyger.

ps. why did blake spell it tyger and not tiger?

[Nak Nak]

Originally posted by hambakmeritru
The Lamb
William Blake

Little Lamb, who made thee
Does thou know who made thee
Gave thee life & bid thee feed.
By the stream & o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing woolly bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice.
Making all the vales rejoice:
Little Lamb who made thee
Does thou know who made thee

Little Lamb I'll tell thee,
Little Lamb I'll tell thee;
He is called by thy name,
For he calls himself a Lamb:
He is meek & he is mild,
He became a little child
I a child & thou a lamb,
We are called by His name,
Little Lamb God bless thee,
Little Lamb God bless thee.


these poems are supposed to compliment eachother.
but this one is much lesser known than tyger tyger.

ps. why did blake spell it tyger and not tiger?

I assume it was the actual spelling back then? Or he did it for effect, I'm not sure.

[Foxing Peculiar]

Your Laughter
Pablo Neruda

Take breath away from me, if you wish,
take air away, but
do not take from me your laughter.

Do not take away the rose,
the lanceflower that you pluck,
the water that suddenly
bursts forth in your joy,
the sudden wave
of silver born in you.

My struggle is harsh and I come back
with eyes tired
at times from having seen
the unchanging earth,
but when your laughter enters
it rises to the sky seeking me
and it opens for me all
the doors of life.

My love, in the darkest
hour your laughter
opens, and if suddenly
you see my blood staining
the stones of the street,
laugh, because your laughter
will be for my hands
like a fresh sword.

Next to the sea in the autumn,
your laughter must raise
its foamy cascade,
and in the spring, love,
I want your laughter like
the flower I was waiting for,
the blue flower, the rose
of my echoing country.

Laugh at the night,
at the day, at the moon,
laugh at the twisted
streets of the island,
laugh at this clumsy
boy who loves you,
but when I open
my eyes and close them,
when my steps go,
when my steps return,
deny me bread, air,
light, spring,
but never your laughter
for I would die.

[Saxton]

Remembered Music
Rumi

'Tis said, the pipe and lute that charm our ears
Derive their melody from rolling spheres;
But Faith, o'erpassing speculation's bound,
Can see what sweetens every jangled sound.

We, who are parts of Adam, heard with him
The song of angels and of seraphim.
Out memory, though dull and sad, retains
Some echo still of those unearthly strains.

Oh, music is the meat of all who love,
Music uplifts the soul to realms above.
The ashes glow, the latent fires increase:
We listen and are fed with joy and peace.

[Osceana]

walking alone along distant aisle
and emptying the remaining tapestries of dried Lavender deposited by shelves cut from the depth of destroying Seashells

....there was always a source of Red behind him


it was lined inside his body, as warm as a Valentine....
it spread through a measure of slow, even color
graduating into a trail of fire wherever he went,
leaving behind a scent as it melted the porcelain inside lines of bathrooms heavy with pattern and stained by the presence of rain

This is the final Opera

Separated :| So to her he would open his mouth in a flood of Roses pouring out
....and like soft velvet his cheeks were lacerated by the memory of sound escaping
....to go to sleep
if only to meet in dreams....

“To follow you across the arrows that pierce our name
pronounced equally through our open mouths, concentrating into shape, split apart by thee appertaining seasons
but still, i am waiting Inside Trees
....to follow the line of green repeating through hallways where wine evaporates....

And in this the seasons will continue to change,
but this is not the last
because the Heart cannot be subtracted

.Through Love, i go, by and by the way
....bleeding into paintings
but in Love, Summer nights are late....

....So, if dying, am i not a Saint?

To follow you across wherever you have been
i, to thee, am cherished so happily in knowing that This Is Not the End.
....because only in addition can 1 complete.”

[Osceana]

"I've wasted all my time on you....
I've wasted all my time waiting for these phone calls
but i just called to ask, 'How have you been? I miss you....' "

"Oh, you never listen...."

It's such a simple way
How you mix the French Vanilla & the water in
And then you pour me out into tea

"I still can't find the way," she says.
"....And i always wonder where you at & if you're okay....
But even now, do you still feel how i did then?
And can you understand why i dream of you often
And why i get so, so sad?"

"Oh Mom, I never had the chance....
And i don't know what happened...."

It's such a simple way....
How you can taste the Lavender evaporate

"In Spain right now, they're having a parade
And there are so many different colors
It's so beautiful; the way blue goes into violet...."

....Then the doors close behind them and the funeral begins....

"Are we separated by more than distance & miles?
Oh Kasia," he writes, "If you were mine, i'd make you smile....
The Sundays here are always so, so slow....
But do you know how i feel about you?"

She simply replies, "Yes, i do...."

(Oh Rose, you never listen....)

"How can i say, 'I'm never coming back'?"
"I still wonder where you're at...."
"Oh Rose, i'm never coming back...."
"I'm sorry. I never could accept the facts...."
"How do you say, 'I'm never coming back'?"

[Kinbote]

"On Discovering a Butterfly," Vladimir Nabokov:

I found it and I named it, being versed
in taxonomic Latin; thus became
godfather to an insect and its first
describer -- and I want no other fame.

Wide open on its pin (though fast asleep),
and safe from creeping relatives and rust,
in the secluded stronghold where we keep
type specimens it will transcend its dust.

Dark pictures, thrones, the stones that pilgrims kiss,
poems that take a thousand years to die
but ape the immortality of this
red label on a little butterfly.

[Dressed for the H-Bomb]

meh, here we go, just copying and pasting song lyrics

DUST BOWL PHYSICS
Now that the prophets have gone out left
Straight out to pastures, they will lay their heads in rest
And out east we lie here and we’re dying
Cause change of address is only change of mind
This change of address is no change of mine

The left man said lets all move out to California
The right man said we’ve got no new use for this old land
The law man said lets all move out to California
The poet said my heart is buried in these warm sands
The left man said lets all move out to California

Distorted figure eight wrap around
My elbow mistaken for a crown
We two lie in our Seligman’s cage
At the bottom of the ocean we will sink our fate

The left man said lets all move out to California
The right man said we’ve got no new use for this old land
The left man said lets all move out to California
The poet said my heart is buried in these warm sands
The law man said lets all move out to California

Now that the prophets have gone out left
To greater shadows, they will lay their heads in rest
And out east we lie here and we’re dying
Cause change of address is only change of mind
This change of address is no change of mine

And I see all the miles
You’ve put inside of you
And they will eat your soul

I’ve got nobody, but my own body to carry me home
You don’t need a pace, you can just follow the flow

The left man said lets all move out to California
The right man said we’ve got no new use for this old land
The law man said lets all move out to California
The poet said my heart bleed's out to the Pacific
The left man said lets all move out to California
And we all said

TOO LATE
Hello world, here I come, too bad it’s 13 years too long
Meant to follow never to pass, I walk around this world in my hindsight mask
Walk through these woods and I swear to God I hear my fate knocking on wood
Meant to follow never to pass, I walk around this world in my hindsight mask
Walk through these woods and I swear to God I hear my fate knocking on wood

Hello world, here I come, too bad it’s 30 years too long
The truth will hit you like a ton of bricks from sixty stories on heaven’s Styx
We will find and hunt you down, but not before this empathy’s been crowned
Life is way too goddamn long, but not long enough for the important stuff
The truth will hit you like a ton of bricks from sixty stories on heaven’s Styx

And all of my regrets are gone, they are lost in the sum

THIS
Does it show
I'm only what I know
Wrapped up in these old feats
Is that who you wanted to be?

And this world wasn't made for you
And it wasn't made against you

Here I stand
Somehow less of what I am
When a simple message would do
The possibilites

And this world wasn't made for you
And it wasn't made against you

Cut backs the weeks, the days, the years, and than the sage
Because everybody knows this wasn't made for you
Left with a poets feet, left kicking on the ground
Because the higher sound meant to drown you out

You are this world


sorry

[Henriette]

Originally posted by UncleLester
"On Discovering a Butterfly," Vladimir Nabokov:

That's really beautiful. When I was 16 my brother was always trying to get me to read Lolita. I was on a Steinbeck kick then, and wanted nothing to do with his books... Maybe I should read it now.

[Henriette]

I really like concrete poetry - or shape/pattern poetry... It's so much fun to read. I used to have this awesome one about soda, but I can't find it and I can't remember who wrote it... There's also a great one in Alice in Wonderland, but I don't have the book here with me.

[Cheryl K]

*Is so tempted to post some of my roommate's horrible poetry*

[Dressed for the H-Bomb]

Originally posted by Cheryl
*Is so tempted to post some of my roommate's horrible poetry*
:D, I hope this little emoticon is encouragement enough.

[Foxing Peculiar]

Originally posted by Cheryl
*Is so tempted to post some of my roommate's horrible poetry*

if you don't, I might

[Kinbote]

MFA poem template:

I go to the window
It is raining outside
And I am important.

[Henriette]

I'm a science major, so I don't know, but that's pretty funny. But really - I don't know. I like poetry. I don't think poets are any more self-righteous than any other artist.

[Kinbote]

Poets aren't, but MFA students are. They have - with their stories as well as their poems - made most literary magazines nigh-unreadable...bad (cheap, minimalist) prose, "epiphanic moments." They're a self-replicating assembly line, MFA students are. Awful!

[Henriette]

Oh, yeah - well then yes: I agree. I misunderstood your post - sorry. I know someone who's in an MFA program... It's quite sad. Her plays were so much better before! I think maybe these programs are kind of like when someone says, "What are you thinking of?" and then you instantly lose your thought. You know... paint-by-number - that sort of thing. I make no sense. But who knows? Maybe it depends on the program?

[Kinbote]

Paint-by-numbers is just it...there's an obscene sameness. And it keeps itself going, because most MFA grads lack the talent to make a career of writing (not that talented people are always able to do so), and thus go on to be...MFA teachers, spewing on the same idiot philosophy. Epiphany, "voice"...god. Angers me. Style and structure are all that fucking matter, and most of these could never identify, let alone understand, either.

[Henriette]

Well, I guess that anyone who would want an MFA is probably more interested in making themselves marketable (vs. actually writing for the sake of invention), and unfortunately everyone wants Pepsi... That said, what do you think of Saul Bellow teaching creative writing at the Univeristy of Chicago? He also taught at NYU (among other universities, I'm sure) - although, I'm not sure of what he taught there.

[Kinbote]

A waste of his time, but I don't blame him - these places will hand out a lot of money to land a "name."

[Henriette]

So in the end it's all about money.

[Kinbote]

What isn't?

[Joliet's Green Onions]

1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12,13,14,15,16,17,18,19,20,21,22,23,24,25,26,27,28,29,30,31,32,33,34,35,36,37,38,39,40,41,42,43,44,...,99...100,101,102,103,10 4,105,106,107,108!!!...109,110

[dorareever]

It needs editing though. It's just the first draft. I know it sounds sort of...goth...but I guess that's my style.



Deep waters run still
So they aren't even running
They are still standing still standing still
The black deep water washing down the hill
The black sheep follows the white sheep on its trail
The black ship pirate ship goes and sails away
The sail on the black ship with crosses and skull and bones
It crosses the dark ocean's glowing foam
It's foaming at the mouth of Scylla's face
It's facing once again something you hate
But hate won't take you anywhere and nowhere is where you'll go
Until the dark deep waters will cover all you know

[dorareever]

Originally posted by UncleLester
Doesn't ANYONE like rhyme or consistent meter?


I only write rhyming poetry. Probably because often what I'm actually writing are song lyrics without music.

I'm so old-fashioned it hurts. I'm boring probably. :-o

[Cheryl K]

Originally posted by Foxing Peculiar
if you don't, I might

Hehe :-*

“Whose Promise?”

Whose promise do I really keep
when I marry this man?
Is this promise truly mine,
or was my body and name sold?

What promise is loyalty
without some betrayal to forgive?
Who am I to sell away my body
for a measly last name,
to become a slave of his religion,
or to be chained to the existence he deems worthy?

What promise is obedience
when he has all the freedom?
What promise “ties the knot”
to a leash around my neck until I cannot breathe?

It isn’t my promise to take beatings when he makes a mistake,
to fear being human even after his claims of divinity,
or to make his castle my own prison.

Now, whose true promise do I really keep when I leave my family to marry this man,
to be found covered in blood and bruises, and…
then found
dead?

Not mine.

[Cheryl K]

One more selection from my roommate...

“I Don’t Know What To Say”

Dear sweet Steve, adorable, love of mine,
You said that you're scared to say or talk about anything
Because I act as if things are not fine.
It is true and I'm sorry, but you're not the reason being.

I ask you such secret questions because the pictures have already come,
And I wonder if you ever do such things and would ever do such things...
...Such things; scary and unpleasurable things onto another someone.
I ask because I am so very insecure and scared, still, of these very things.

Some days, I still want to crawl and hide, even when I know your mind is elsewhere.
Some days, I want to beg you not to hurt me, even though I know you never would.
Sometimes, I fear of what you could make me do, though your mind is far from there.
Sometimes, I dream what abuse I'd take from you, even though I know you never could.

It's not you.
Please, know that you are not the reason.
It's not you.
It's going to take longer than a season.

I'm sorry that you have to be dragged into all of it.
I know you don't deserve all that I have put you through.
You deserve so much more that a badge of merit.
Some day, I'll know how to take this and what to do.


I have an embarrassing confession to make to you,
And I hope you're not going to hate me for this, my love.
There was another reason why I wanted to marry you.
I hope to explain to with the guidance from God, above.


You see, my love, I wanted to stay true to you forever!
So, I wanted to marry you also to assure to myself that I wouldn't be able to hurt you.
Right now, I can still hurt you...not that I would want to, not ever.
But if I married you, I'd be containing myself and keeping myself from ever hurting you.
I could never intentionally be mean to you, so I really never feared about that,
But I do fear about seeming like I was unfaithful to you in some way.
I just want to be loving towards you, but I'm afraid I'm still learning all about that,
And I guess I still have stuff to catch up on...even stuff up to this very day.

[Henriette]

Wow - you're really fucked up!

[Cheryl K]

Originally posted by Henriette
Wow - you're really fucked up!

Why? I took those poems from a public website.

[Henriette]

Oh - sorry!:-o

[Cheryl K]

Originally posted by Henriette
Oh - sorry!:-o

My roommate's public website!

[Dressed for the H-Bomb]

Originally posted by Cheryl
My roommate's public website!
I don't know why but I feel a BOO-YAH!!! coming on

[Henriette]

Originally posted by iamtable
I don't know why but I feel a BOO-YAH!!! coming on

What does this mean?

[Nak Nak]

Originally posted by Henriette
What does this mean?

It means he's a retard.

The roommate has "issues" too I guess.

[homer j. simpson]

"Angel!: If there were a place we didn't know of, and there,
on some unsayable carpet, lovers displayed
what they could never bring to mastery here--the bold
exploits of their high-flying hearts,
their towers of pleasure, their ladders
that have long since been standing where there was no ground,
leaning
just on each other, trembling,--and could never master all this,
before the surrounding spectators, the innumerable soundless dead:
Would these, then, throw down their final, forever saved up,
forever hidden, unknown to us, eternally valid
coins of happiness before the at last
genuinely smiling pair on the gratified
carpet?"

I don't know who that's by, but I like it. It was in this book I read a while ago, The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger.

[Dressed for the H-Bomb]

Originally posted by Henriette
What does this mean?
I don't know exactly how it is spelled, if your foreign, I'll just use the "It's an American phrase" excuse/escape hatch. But trust me, how I saw the conversation going, it needed that phrase.

[Henriette]

Oh - I like American phrases... especially this one - uh - how do you say... Fuck off?

[Atomsk Iscariot]

Hvað starfar þú? (spurt í fjöskylduboði yfir kakóbolla)
by Sigurður Ólafsson

Ég ER

það er nóg




(translation by Sean Schoenherr):
What do you do? (asked during a family dinner over a cup of cocoa)
by Sigurður Ólafsson

I AM

that is enough

[Nak Nak]

Originally posted by SuckerLove
Audrey Niffenegger.

Wow that's an ugly name!

[Static Split Screen]

I wrote this one for Craig ages ago before we were together, and he was dumb and didn't realize I had written it about him!

We're different, you and I
On the opposite sides of the night
The dawn and the dusk staining the sky
Touching across the distance
You drift off as I awake
We share a smile in passing

We'll meet in the stars
And dance on the moon
dine on twilight among the clouds
Drift down in mourning
Missing the lost day
But remembering the shared night
You the dawn, I the dusk.

[TheImplodingVoice]

Originally posted by Static Split Screen


If someone wrote something like that to me, I'd jump on her (respectfully)


please help me with my grammar!:cry:

[Dressed for the H-Bomb]

Originally posted by Henriette
Oh - I like American phrases... especially this one - uh - how do you say... Fuck off?
The conversation played out well in my mind at least. I guess I'm not wanted around these parts for awhile.

[robomarie]

Originally posted by UncleLester
I dislike poetry

Ted! That is a kick in the stomach for sure.

[Kinbote]

Originally posted by poor henry
Ted! That is a kick in the stomach for sure.

It's the inferior mode of written expression. And, these days, it's the place to be for people too lazy and/or untalented to compose prose.

[Nak Nak]

I did jump on her, respectfully...like 6 months later.

[robomarie]

Originally posted by UncleLester
It's the inferior mode of written expression. And, these days, it's the place to be for people too lazy and/or untalented to compose prose.

No it's not, you poopface.

[Kinbote]

Originally posted by poor henry
No it's not, you poopface.

Afraid it is, pissbrain.

[revgoozen]

Originally posted by UncleLester
It's the inferior mode of written expression. And, these days, it's the place to be for people too lazy and/or untalented to compose prose.

i disagree, but it is unfortunate that every musician/actor/politician/idiot with a mommy issue is allowed to publish a book of poetry. there are great contemporary poets out there though, who take the craft of writing as serious as eliot, pound, or yeats ever did. joshua clover for example. you should check out his book madonna anno domini...

[Static Split Screen]

Originally posted by Nak Nak
I did jump on her, respectfully...like 6 months later.

:-* :heart:

[Kinbote]

Originally posted by revgoozen
eliot, pound

Bad examples, to me at least - particularly Pound. Yeats is swell, though.

[revgoozen]

Originally posted by UncleLester
Bad examples, to me at least - particularly Pound. Yeats is swell, though.

it would seem that you are not a fan of the modernists or imagists... is it that, or is there another reason why you dislike these authors? i'm noticing patterns from your favorite books, poems, and even some of the films you've mentioned. i think we are drawn opposite ends of the artistic spectrum.

[In Dust and Ashes]

I'm not such a huge fan of todays contemporary poetry. (is contemporary the word I want?) but theres always a few gems to be seen.

[Kinbote]

Originally posted by revgoozen
it would seem that you are not a fan of the modernists or imagists... is it that, or is there another reason why you dislike these authors? i'm noticing patterns from your favorite books, poems, and even some of the films you've mentioned. i think we are drawn opposite ends of the artistic spectrum.

I like individual inspiration, whatever "school" or "movement" it's considered to be a part of. I like, though do not require, elegance of style. I despise cultural concerns, political concerns, and social concerns. I despise second-hand structuring.

[revgoozen]

Originally posted by UncleLester

I despise cultural concerns, political concerns, and social concerns. I despise second-hand structuring.

By secondhand structuring, do mean those things that happen on more of a global level as opposed to a personal one? if so that's interesting. it sort of completes my mental image of you as a traditionalist of sorts (which i don't mean to imply as a bad thing by the way).

[Kinbote]

Originally posted by revgoozen
By secondhand structuring, do mean those things that happen on more of a global level as opposed to a personal one? if so that's interesting. it sort of completes my mental image of you as a traditionalist of sorts (which i don't mean to imply as a bad thing by the way).

I actually meant "second-hand" as "inherited" - intentionally shaping the work around already conceived notions. As in, you know, "I'm going to write a novel adhering to the tenets of [insert jargon string here]" or "I'm going to compose a poem damning the evils of capitalism"...maybe the work will arrive at these places on its own, and if so, that's fine - but as a starting point, no - that's just creatively bankrupt. Unrestrained and ecstatic invention ought to be the prime ambition of any artist.

But you know, I don't think I'm any too fond of what you've mentioned up there either.

[Bremang]

Clutching onto heaven's gates
An angel made me wait outside
She gave no grace to my mistakes
And claimed my life had passed me by

But all I did was watch TV
I said church was my favorite station
God is my favorite celebrity
As media ruled all creation

She said "kid, I don't make the rules
I'm just this guy's receptionist
I know he's always on the tube
tryin' to sell his crucifix."

I told her I'd speak of her gall
But she was not impressed at all

[Feeling Brackish]

Half assed gestures keep my brain wondering
Wandering in a field of self-inefficacy
I pick the flowers, thinking it'll make a dent
In your Chrystler Imperial solid steel doors
I'm not surprised when my metal bat
Becomes rubber upon impact
And it impotently bounces back
Slapping me in my silly grinning face
I should be ashamed
Like any self respecting
Misanthropic despot of the streets
But I'm not
And I'm all that more Happy for it

[revgoozen]

Originally posted by UncleLester
intentionally shaping the work around already conceived notions.

that's what i meant by "global" - manipulating your story to fit into the confines of an over arching argument, be it themeatic, pollitical, or stylistic. no one want to be beaten over the head with a dichotemy, but some works of this nature are more amusing than others. for example, i've laughed my ass off at I heart Huckabee's twice in the past month, even though I think that there are other movies which conveyed the same message in a far more effective way.

[drumloops]

Originally posted by UncleLester
Doesn't ANYONE like rhyme or consistent meter?

The reason why so few poets and readers enjoy rhyme is because it is so often done poorly.

The aversion to meter is probably due to the misconception that writing in form is "difficult," old-fashioned, and unnecessary.

Anyone who is seriously interested in prosody should look towards the following book for guidance:

An Exaltation of Forms: Contemporary Poets Celebrate the Diversity of Their Art [University of Michigan Press]

http://images.amazon.com/images/P/0472067257.01._AA400_SCLZZZZZZZ_.jpg

It has chapters written by renowned poets (Marilyn Hacker, W.D. Snodgrass, to name a few) on forms such as the villanelle, sonnet, terza rima and beyond, extending the art into music and culture, as well.

[drumloops]

Michiko Nogami (1946 - 1982)

Is she more apparent because she is not
anymore forever? Is her whiteness more white
because she was the color of pale honey?
A smokestack making the sky more visible.
A dead woman filling the whole world. Michiko
said, "The roses you gave me kept me awake
with the sound of their petals falling."

--Jack Gilbert, from The Great Fires: Poems 1982 - 1992 [Knopf]

[homer j. simpson]

When you left, I found
I no longer filled the room
But the patience never runs dry
It won't take you long to realise
There will always be room in your gloom
For a moment's thought of what you can pursue.
Angels will fall and skies will break
Time will change and hesitate
The lover's love will dissipate
As you look to pursue.

[Nak Nak]

i spit and spit
and spit and spit
and spit and cry
and spit and spit
and spit and die!

[Barbara]

Bremang, I really like that one

Cinnamon rolls are yummy
Cinnamon rolls are nice
If I could have cinnamon rolls only once
I would want them twice :)

[drumloops]

Music


Poplars.

This music
of morning's white-washed walls.

Sweet vowels
of shadow and water
in a summer of tawny
lazing animals.

Morning lark
in the white
sand of June.

Acidic music
of thistle
and knives.

Music of fire
around the lips.

Unbuttoned
round the waist.

Between the legs
just there.

Music
of the first rains
upon the hay.

Fragrance only,
bee of water.

Rest and retreat
where the brief flame
of a pomegranate shines.

Music, take me:

Where are the boats?
Where are the islands?

--Eugenio de Andrade; translated from the Portugese by Alexis Levitin.

[sleepy sinner]

Crumbling mirages of cheating, epheremal men
Who die with a wink and a smile of criminal complicity
Plague me, they follow me around the city streets
Calling, beautiful girl take me home
There’s something about your skin and bones I can use
To scratch this itch I have of my own making
Forceful, for the taking
This responsibility to be my remedy
God-given to you girl, your place in the bleeding soil

[Atomsk Iscariot]

Another piece of shit from me:

the death, wake, and ensuing cremation of the abstract

we were
writing poems around
big, pretty ideas-

making caustic
observations of
the crack in the bedroom wall
or the teapot
spilling its searing
contents into our
little red hands,

clinging desperately
to the ambiguity
of it all.

"well, maybe
we've found
God."

well, maybe
we've found
nothing at all.

[drumloops]

Originally posted by Atomsk Iscariot
Another piece of shit from me:

the death, wake, and ensuing cremation of the abstract

we were
writing poems around
big, pretty ideas-

making caustic
observations of
the crack in the bedroom wall
or the teapot
spilling its searing
contents into our
little red hands,

clinging desperately
to the ambiguity
of it all.

"well, maybe
we've found
God."

well, maybe
we've found
nothing at all.

Don't be so hard on yourself; the poem is fine.

If I may be so bold as to make a suggestion, I would tell you to keep a sharp eye on those line breaks; a good number of poems collapse because of poor (i.e., arbitrary) decisions concerning line length.

For example:

making caustic / observations of / the crack in the bedroom wall. . .

could become:

making caustic observations
of the crack
in the bedroom wall

The change is a minor one, but does make each line just a bit stronger--and more enjoyable to read.

[still ill]

Mon amour pour avoir figuré mes désirs
Mis tes lèvres au ciel de tes mots comme un astre
Tes baisers dans la nuit vivante
Et le sillage de tes bras autour de moi
Comme une flamme en signe de conquête
Mes rêves sont au monde
Clairs et perpétuels.

Et quand tu n'es pas là
Je rêve que je dors je rêve que je rêve.

[Atomsk Iscariot]

Originally posted by drumloops
Don't be so hard on yourself; the poem is fine.

If I may be so bold as to make a suggestion, I would tell you to keep a sharp eye on those line breaks; a good number of poems collapse because of poor (i.e., arbitrary) decisions concerning line length.

For example:

making caustic / observations of / the crack in the bedroom wall. . .

could become:

making caustic observations
of the crack
in the bedroom wall

The change is a minor one, but does make each line just a bit stronger--and more enjoyable to read. Thank you. My usual choices concerning line breaks are done on the spur of the moment and rarely changed, so I'll take your criticism into great consideration.

[Atomsk Iscariot]

O, We are the Outcasts
by Charles Bukowski

ah, christ, what a CREW:
more
poetry, always more
P O E T R Y .

if it doesn't come, coax it out with a
laxative. get your name in LIGHTS,
get it up there in
8 1/2 x 11 mimeo.

keep it coming like a miracle.

ah christ, writers are the most sickening
of all the louts!
yellow-toothed, slump-shouldered,
gutless, flea-bitten and
obvious . . . in tinker-toy rooms
with their flabby hearts
they tell us
what's wrong with the world-
as if we didn't know that a cop's club
can crack the head
and that war is a dirtier game than
marriage . . .
or down in a basement bar
hiding from a wife who doesn't appreciate him
and children he doesn't
want
he tells us that his heart is drowning in
vomit. hell, all our hearts are drowning in vomit,
in pork salt, in bad verse, in soggy
love.
but he thinks he's alone and
he thinks he's special and he thinks he's Rimbaud
and he thinks he's
Pound.

and death! how about death? did you know
that we all have to die? even Keats died, even
Milton!
and D. Thomas-THEY KILLED HIM, of course.
Thomas didn't want all those free drinks
all that free pussy-
they . . . FORCED IT ON HIM
when they should have left him alone so he could
write write WRITE!

poets.

and there's another
type. I've met them at their country
places (don't ask me what I was doing there because
I don't know).

they were born with money and
they don't have to dirty their hands in
slaughterhouses or washing
dishes in grease joints or
driving cabs or pimping or selling pot.

this gives them time to understand
Life.

they walk in with their cocktail glass
held about heart high
and when they drink they just
sip.

you are drinking green beer which you
brought with you
because you have found out through the years
that rich bastards are tight-
they use 5 cent stamps instead of airmail
they promise to have all sorts of goodies ready
upon your arrival
from gallons of whisky to
50 cent cigars. but it's never
there.
and they HIDE their women from you-
their wives, x-wives, daughters, maids, so forth,
because they've read your poems and
figure all you want to do is fuck everybody and
everything. which once might have been
true but is no longer quite
true.

and-
he WRITES TOO.
POETRY, of
course. everybody
writes
poetry.

he has plenty of time and a
postoffice box in town
and he drives there 3 or 4 times a day
looking and hoping for accepted
poems.

he thinks that poverty is a weakness of the
soul.

he thinks your mind is ill because you are
drunk all the time and have to work in a
factory 10 or 12 hours a
night.

he brings his wife in, a beauty, stolen from a
poorer rich
man.
he lets you gaze for 30 seconds
then hustles her
out. she has been crying for some
reason.

you've got 3 or 4 days to linger in the
guesthouse he says,
"come on over to dinner
sometime."
but he doesn't say when or
where. and then you find out that you are not even
IN HIS HOUSE.

you are in
ONE of his houses but
his house is somewhere
else-
you don't know
where.

he even has x-wives in some of his
houses.

his main concern is to keep his x-wives away from
you. he doesn't want to give up a
damn thing. and you can't blame him:
his x-wives are all young, stolen, kept,
talented, well-dressed, schooled, with
varying French-German accents.

and!: they
WRITE POETRY TOO. or
PAINT. or
fuck.

[Atomsk Iscariot]

but his big problem is to get down to that mail
box in town to get back his
rejected poems
and to keep his eye on all the other mail boxes
in all his other
houses.

meanwhile, the starving Indians
sell beads and baskets in the streets of the small desert
town.

the Indians are not allowed in his houses
not so much because they are a fuck-threat
but because they are
dirty and
ignorant. dirty? I look down at my shirt
with the beerstain on the front.
ignorant? I light a 6 cent cigar and
forget about
it.

he or they or somebody was supposed to meet me at
the
train station.

of course, they weren't
there. "We'll be there to meet the great
Poet!"

well, I looked around and didn't see any
great poet. besides it was 7 a.m. and
40 degrees. those things
happen. the trouble was there were no
bars open. nothing open. not even a
jail.

he's a poet.
he's also a doctor, a head-shrinker.
no blood involved that
way. he won't tell me whether I am crazy or
not-I don't have the
money.

he walks out with his cocktail glass
disappears for 2 hours, 3 hours,
then suddenly comes walking back in
unannounced
with the same cocktail glass
to make sure I haven't gotten hold of
something more precious than
Life itself.

my cheap green beer is killing
me. he shows heart (hurrah) and
gives me a little pill that stops my
gagging.
but nothing decent to
drink.

he'd bought a small 6 pack
for my arrival but that was gone in an
hour and 15
minutes.

"I'll buy you barrels of beer," he had
said.

I used his phone (one of his phones)
to get deliveries of beer and
cheap whisky. the town was ten miles away,
downhill. I peeled my poor dollars from my poor
roll. and the boy needed a tip, of
course.

the way it was shaping up I could see that I was
hardly Dylan Thomas yet, not even
Robert Creeley. certainly Creeley wouldn't have
had beerstains on his
shirt.

anyhow, when I finally got hold of one of his
x-wives I was too drunk to
make it.

scared too. sure, I imagined him peering
through the window-
he didn't want to give up a damn thing-
and
leveling the luger while I was
working
while "The March to the Gallows" was playing over
the Muzak
and shooting me in the ass first and
my poor brain
later.

"an intruder," I could hear him telling them,
"ravishing one of my helpless x-wives."

I see him published in some of the magazines
now. not very good stuff.

a poem about me
too: the Polack.

the Polack whines too much. the Polack whines about his
country, other countries, all countries, the Polack
works overtime in a factory like a fool, among other
fools with "pre-drained spirits."
the Polack drinks seas of green beer
full of acid. the Polack has an ulcerated
hemorrhoid. the Polack picks on fags
"fragile fags." the Polack hates his
wife, hates his daughter. his daughter will become
an alcoholic, a prostitute. the Polack has an
"obese burned out wife." the Polack has a
spastic gut. the Polack has a
"rectal brain."

thank you, Doctor (and poet). any charge for
this? I know I still owe you for the
pill.

Your poem is not too good
but at least I got your starch up.
most of your stuff is about as lively as a
wet and deflated
beachball. but it is your round, you've won a round.
going to invite me out this
Summer? I might scrape up
trainfare. got an Indian friend who'd like to meet
you and yours. he swears he's got the biggest
pecker in the state of California.

and guess what?
he writes
POETRY
too!

[Kinbote]

"Dockery and Son" - Philip Larkin

'Dockery was junior to you,
Wasn't he?' said the Dean. 'His son's here now.'
Death-suited, visitant, I nod. 'And do
You keep in touch with-' Or remember how
Black-gowned, unbreakfasted, and still half-tight
We used to stand before that desk, to give
'Our version' of 'these incidents last night'?
I try the door of where I used to live:

Locked. The lawn spreads dazzlingly wide.
A known bell chimes. I catch my train, ignored.
Canal and clouds and colleges subside
Slowly from view. But Dockery, good Lord,
Anyone up today must have been born
In '43, when I was twenty-one.
If he was younger, did he get this son
At nineteen, twenty? Was he that withdrawn

High-collared public-schoolboy, sharing rooms
With Cartwright who was killed? Well, it just shows
How much . . . How little . . . Yawning, I suppose
I fell asleep, waking at the fumes
And furnace-glares of Sheffield, where I changed,
And ate an awful pie, and walked along
The platform to its end to see the ranged
Joining and parting lines reflect a strong

Unhindered moon. To have no son, no wife,
No house or land still seemed quite natural.
Only a numbness registered the shock
Of finding out how much had gone of life,
How widely from the others. Dockery, now:
Only nineteen, he must have taken stock
Of what he wanted, and been capable
Of . . . No, that's not the difference: rather, how

Convinced he was he should be added to!
Why did he think adding meant increase?
To me it was dilution. Where do these
Innate assumptions come from? Not from what
We think truest, or most want to do:
Those warp tight-shut, like doors. They're more a style
Our lives bring with them: habit for a while,
Suddenly they harden into all we've got

And how we got it; looked back on, they rear
Like sand-clouds, thick and close, embodying
For Dockery a son, for me nothing,
Nothing with all a son's harsh patronage.
Life is first boredom, then fear.
Whether or not we use it, it goes,
And leaves what something hidden from us chose,
And age, and then the only end of age.

[xXxNightFatexXx]

I looked aside

Sometimes I wonder,
“Does the world see?”
There is so much,
More to me.

But yet again,
I looked aside.
And the opening,
Drifted wide.

I watched you shake,
Felt the move.
“She must be strange,”
I thought you cooed.

Yet when alone,
Fear burns in eyes.
But when surrounded,
You are disguised.

The mask,
I see.
Does not frighten,
As you wished it to be.

I looked aside,
Turned a cheek.
And saw the tears,
When tears did leak.

No longer afraid,
But so much more.
So stained,
My heart at war.

No, you do not watch.
Instead you turn to run.
But they held their ground,
You thought you would have fun.

Torture is pain,
But is less than that.
Give into it softly,
Stab me in my back.

Kill me softly,
There isn’t much there.
But do know this,
I tried to care.

Don’t mock my intentions,
I shall not hide.
I am no longer afraid,
Of the anger inside.

Sometimes I wonder,
Is life so hard?
Yet here I am.
A rambling bard.

So I stepped into the ocean.
I knew you lied.
I ended my pain.
I looked aside.

The cold washed over,
My breath failed.
And as I watched,
No one wailed.

Feeling no love,
Come foreword from you.
I felt no need,
To sever onto.

I did not cry out,
When wave washed over.
Instead I sighed,
The pain was over.

I felt it as I died,
The world, so wide.
Yet again,
I looked aside.

By Ash Rayne

[xXxNightFatexXx]

i really didn't mean to post that twice
i just couldnt see it, how retarded was that? sorry~!

[In Dust and Ashes]

go to edit and delete.
works every time. :cool:

[still ill]

Originally posted by xXxNightFatexXx
Sometimes I wonder,


By Ash Rayne
learn how commas work

[xXxNightFatexXx]

thanks for that, was feeling kinda stupid, and i do know how commas work, but i like my own creative writing style better. thank you very much.

[Atomsk Iscariot]

i have stopped
giving names to the hours.

they merely
touch the surface
and explode
like fingerprints on glass.

[xXxNightFatexXx]

touching, really. i would never thought you could write like that. how con you make a poem so short?

[Atomsk Iscariot]

Originally posted by xXxNightFatexXx
how con you make a poem so short? I don't think about it in those terms. A poem ends when it ends either because it's meant to end there, or because the poet has run out of ideas. In the case of the piece you're referring to, it's the latter.

[Atomsk Iscariot]

Chocolate
by Sandra M. Gilbert

In the end, in the long-term
wing of the assisted living
home, in the small white chamber

looking out on the patio's locked-in
blooms or in the big plain
"day room" with its blaring

TV and hopeful posters,
they fed my mother
ground-up piles of pallid

stuff in bowls clamped onto
a plastic tray and at first
she smiled, delicious, delicious,

as she sucked the oozing
juices, the last pap,
smiling surrounded by fellow

diners drooping and mumbling
in their places until
after a while she tightened

her lips against the food and
instead began unknotting,
unknotting the flowered

gown, unclothing her wasting
nakedness still white and smooth
and then at the very end,

when dreamy and slim
as a teen she welcomed
old friends and relatives who flickered

on the walls, the curtains
of the tiny room, nodding,
hello, sit down, to the shiny

nothing, she'd eat nothing
but chocolate, only chocolate,
so every day I brought an oblong

Lindt or Hershey
and square by square
she took in mouthfuls,

smiling and nodding, square
by square, delicious, dear,
until she finally

swallowed the whole dense bar.

[xXxNightFatexXx]

interesting. mine have always come out on their own, and even if it wasn't finished, sometimes it would stop. i would always think of something to make it end, because it didn't sound right. the shortest one i have is 4 stanzas. but it has 4 lines in each, so its not really that short. i envy you for your ability to make yours so.

[In Dust and Ashes]

we need to set you up with I Grow Old... for some lessons on poetry and construction.

JASON! GET IN HERE! you need to show this girl what it means to make "short" poetry ;)

[xXxNightFatexXx]

thanks, but i havent writen in so long, all of these are like a month old at least, some a year or so. i've moved on to writing books. vampire stories that im editing, adding, and still in the process of writing.ill try to post it somewhere, though it might be too long. i want to find an editor, and a publisher. any ideas??

[In Dust and Ashes]

big dreams, huh?

[xXxNightFatexXx]

where are we without our dreams?

[Barbara]

When I come home from work
Your poison is waiting for me.

Maybe that's why I waste my time
Talking to friends I don't see.

Because I get away as much as I can,
By my elsewhere head or by my own hands.

Maybe I could drive to Ohio and hide,
Or keep on saying it until he understands.

I used to elevate myself,
Until someone told me I'm a pretentious twat.

Now I sedate myself,
Things could really change, but probably not.

[Atomsk Iscariot]

Originally posted by xXxNightFatexXx
vampire stories Oh dear God. *slams head into desk repeatedly*

[Barbara]

ohhh come on leave the poor little GOTH TEERZ girl alone. shit. I can't pick on people ten years younger than me for that shit, I was kinda the same. Hey, it worked out okay for Anne Rice.

If you like her work NightFate, don't ever read the sleeping beauty series she wrote. It will fuck your head up beyond repair. for real. I think I lost part of my soul.

[Atomsk Iscariot]

Originally posted by Barbara
Hey, it worked out okay for Anne Rice. I fail to see how being a totally talentless cunt is an example of something "working out okay."

Oh, wait, money, yes.

[Kinbote]

Originally posted by Atomsk Iscariot
I fail to see how being a totally talentless cunt is an example of something "working out okay."


I just decided to like you.

[In Dust and Ashes]

Originally posted by xXxNightFatexXx
where are we without our dreams?

choose answer of your liking:

1. a step ahead of ourselves.
2. lost.
3. on the wiser path.
4. where we need to be.

[TheImplodingVoice]

5.None of the above

[Barbara]

Originally posted by Atomsk Iscariot
I fail to see how being a totally talentless cunt is an example of something "working out okay."

Oh, wait, money, yes.

I've actually never read any of her stuff except the aforementioned sleeping beauty series that a friend gave me, and I wish I hadn't ;) but yes I was referring to money/success. She may be a talentless cunt but she probably has a lot more to show for it than me.

[In Dust and Ashes]

Originally posted by TheImplodingVoice
5.None of the above

so what would your answer be?

[xXxNightFatexXx]

Originally posted by Atomsk Iscariot
Oh dear God. *slams head into desk repeatedly*

what?? just because i was bored last summer and decided to something productive your beatign yourself up? *confused* why do you say this?, oh, and your insults are amusing.

Barbara, i havent really gotten around to reading her yet. mum said i was "too young..." oh well, i finally found a library that has her work, and now that im in high i can get them there. only problem, neither public or school has interview with the vampire. how can i begin a series without the first book? oh! and what is the sleeping beauty seies? the one about pandora?

hambakmeritru, 2 and 5. cant really say how i feel, searching for words and finding none.

[In Dust and Ashes]

really?
I'd go with 1.

but frankly, I don't much care for dreams. I make goals, not dreams; I have hopes, but not dreams.

[In Dust and Ashes]

oh and call me Patrenalla. ;)

[Barbara]

Originally posted by xXxNightFatexXx
oh! and what is the sleeping beauty seies? the one about pandora?



no it's this weird porno s & m 3-part book series by Anne Rice loosely based on the fairy tale Sleeping Beauty...except instead of kissing her to wake her, he rapes her in her sleep, and takes her away to his castle to be one of his hundreds of naked spanking, torture and kinky sex slaves. It was like a train wreck, once I started reading them I couldn't look away, but mostly I felt disgusted ;) Nick K would probably love them ;)

[Dalton C Calhoun]

but frankly, I don't much care for dreams. I make goals, not dreams; I have hopes, but not dreams.
I can't believe you don't "care for dreams." I love having dreams and hope to have many, many more. Just last night I dreamt about having a dream within a dream where this one girl I know started doing this really bizarre and annoying stuff. So I got really mad and punched her in the face. She started crying and I said, "Don't worry, it's just my dream. You won't remember it when I wake up." I woke up and saw her in the other room and I smiled mischieviously.

[In Dust and Ashes]

the only night dreams I care for are the real exciting ones where I'm being chased, or doing something awesome like that.
everything else is just crap and if it involves anyone I know in real life, chances are, it's not a good thing.

[Barbara]

Dreams are awesome. except scary or sad ones :cry:

I've had four major recurring dreams...flying like fuckin' Peter Pan, huge explosions that kill me & everyone, big trucks getting demolished somehow (the funniest one was a dream where there was this huge parking lot full of big ugly pick-up trucks, and a herd of elephants and rhionoceri came in and stomped the shit out of all the trucks) and tornados/thunderstorms (probably cause I live in tornado alley, but I don't know why they keep showing up in my dreams). The flying dreams are awesome and I always wake up somewhat elated and somewhat sad that I can't really fly ;) they always feel so real though, sometimes I can tell I'm dreaming whilst in a dream but usually in those I'm convinced it's really happening and people are all looking at me up in the sky like "Woah, that bitch can fly! :wtf: " The explosion dreams were very vivid too, the colors and settings in all of them and a few times I woke up and for a few seconds felt sure that I had died, because I experienced it in so much detail in the dream.

[xXxNightFatexXx]

ok, Patrenalla. it works for you, is that your real name? if you dont mind. im just curious.
when i say dreams i dont mean just the ones when you sleep, i mean day dreams, thoughts in general... you get the idea.
you know, you guys are lucky. i've never had a dream of flying that i can remember, or one of explosions. and never one within a dream. im lucky to even remember the ones i do have, and when i do, i remember them vividly.
i had this one years ago when i was in this really bright house, and i was drinking nesquik, and then the crypt keeper appeared and started chasing me... it was strange.
recently i had one where im in this bizzar amusment park, and everythings inside, not like normal ones. theres this one attraction i go into, its like a haunted house, but its pitch black and not much else. i go in with someone, but i end up switching partners. but the thing is you never want to be alone. i dont know why, but something bad would happen. anyway i see jesse, whos this girl i havent seen in like forever, and theres forest, whom i dont even really know, shelby, one of my friends and Dre, whos in my karate class. so Dre and i go down these stairs, but their wrong. their all disfigured and crooked. anyway, we finally get out, and i meet up with Rae, my best friend. so we're going on through these stores, and i find this red onkey. i always get something for my sister wherever i go, so i wanted to get her the monkey, which turns out to be like 8 bucks, and i dont have that much. so i leave the store, and travel down the connecting hallway to another. i ask Rae how much money she has, and she pulls out this pile of goo. she says she has like 5 and the dream ends.
isn't that strange?

[xXxNightFatexXx]

Originally posted by Barbara
no it's this weird porno s & m 3-part book series by Anne Rice loosely based on the fairy tale Sleeping Beauty...except instead of kissing her to wake her, he rapes her in her sleep, and takes her away to his castle to be one of his hundreds of naked spanking, torture and kinky sex slaves. It was like a train wreck, once I started reading them I couldn't look away, but mostly I felt disgusted ;) Nick K would probably love them ;)

holy shit man, thats fucked up! but i know how it is to read that type of book and not be able to put it down. wouldn't think i would be that way huh? but i am, sorry to dissappoint all you kiddies! lol. sorry im not my controled self right now.
oh, and another thing, i have been beaten, and i bow down to you sirs please. thats some interesting poetry. i must find one to counter with.

[In Dust and Ashes]

Originally posted by xXxNightFatexXx
ok, Patrenalla. it works for you, is that your real name? if you dont mind. im just curious.

no. but my real name is a coded secret inside it ;)

I've never had a flying dream either. closest thing to it is a falling dream.
not quiet as fun, but the adrenaline rush I get from it makes me think it could be exciting to jump off a building one day.........





one day.

[xXxNightFatexXx]

one day... *shifty eyes*
oh, and by the way, call me Ash, i prefer it to my real name, the real ones way too girly, so not me

[Bremang]

Originally posted by Barbara
Bremang, I really like that one

Cinnamon rolls are yummy
Cinnamon rolls are nice
If I could have cinnamon rolls only once
I would want them twice :)



thanks for taking the time to comment on my sonnet :)

[sleepy sinner]

Day and night he scraped
Himself to be free
Of it, left pieces
Behind locked doors and

Under piles of books
Continents apart
Grown older but free
At last, he felt like

Fine expensive glass
Filled with sunlight, yet
A remnant remained
Like dirt beneath nails

Until, with the strength
Of a God, he scraped
Away his birth and
Never existed

- Kevin Hart

[xXxNightFatexXx]

a single shard
can wound the soul,
yet driven deeper,
the heart loses control

harray, my first short poem!! :dance:

[Atomsk Iscariot]

Originally posted by xXxNightFatexXx
harray, my first short poem!! :dance: And it's absolutely horrid.

LEARN METER. Your rhyming will be 100% less painful if you adhere to a strict meter in each of your poems.

[TheImplodingVoice]

ITS POINTLESS, MAN!

[xXxNightFatexXx]

Originally posted by Atomsk Iscariot
And it's absolutely horrid.

LEARN METER. Your rhyming will be 100% less painful if you adhere to a strict meter in each of your poems.

thanks. at least i can say i attempted.

[In Dust and Ashes]

Originally posted by TheImplodingVoice
ITS POINTLESS, MAN!

aww. it's never pointless, andres, you should know that, you're a teacher! :-D

[xXxNightFatexXx]

ur a fuckin teacher? u dont act like one. damn, i mean ive had one call me psycotic and all, but this is not teacher behavior at all. and if it is, i protest!lol

[TheImplodingVoice]

Originally posted by xXxNightFatexXx
ur a fuckin teacher? u dont act like one. damn, i mean ive had one call me psycotic and all, but this is not teacher behavior at all. and if it is, i protest!lol

I'm a fucking piano teacher...And I would never call you psychotic...just, like I said before, painfully normal.

[In Dust and Ashes]

I'm sure you're an awesome piano teacher, my friend. I'd be your student! but I don't know if you could put up with my lack of motivation and procrastination. I'd never practice. :-o :(

[xXxNightFatexXx]

i didn't say you would, im just saying i had one that did, and if ur a piano teacher, thats cool, but why do you say such things. as a teacher you should know its never pointless. and id be the same pat, i get mad at myself very easily and just quit.

[TheImplodingVoice]

Actually, as a teacher, I know most of the times it really is pointless

[xXxNightFatexXx]

but thats like saying that someone with very little talent could never play fur elise

[TheImplodingVoice]

I'm not talking about talent, I'm talking about being a toolbox...

[In Dust and Ashes]

hehe..this can go on forever.

hey does anyone have any form poems of their own? or just form poems that they really like?
sestinas?
sonnets?
Pantoums?

I'd like to try to write a pantoum. but they're hard. I've read several good ones that I really like, but I dont know if I could find them...
right now I"m in the process of writing a sestina. difficult work. by the time i reach the 4th verse I'm just repeating everything I already said. it's a pain.

anyway. heres a sestina that I really like. its kind of a cheater because all the ending words are the same:

Sestina: Bob
by Jonah Winter

According to her housemate, she is out with Bob
tonight, and when she’s out with Bob
you never know when she’ll get in. Bob
is an English professor. Bob
used to be in a motorcycle gang, or something, or maybe Bob
rides a motorcycle now. How radical of you, Bob—

I wish I could ride a motorcycle, Bob,
and also talk about Chaucer intelligently. Bob
is very tall, bearded, reserved. I saw Bob
at a poetry reading last week—he had such a Bob-
like poise—so quintessentially Bob!
The leather jacket, the granny glasses, the beard—Bob!

and you were with my ex-girlfriend, Bob!
And you’re a professor, and I’m nobody, Bob,
nobody, just a flower-deliverer, Bob,
and a skinny one at that, Bob—
and you are a large person, and I am small, Bob,
and I hate my legs, Bob,

but why am I talking to you as if you were here, Bob?
I’ll try to be more objective. Bob
is probably a nice guy. Or that’s what one hears. Bob
is not, however, the most passionate person named Bob
you’ll ever meet. Quiet, polite, succinct, Bob
opens doors for people, is reticent in grocery stores. Bob

does not talk about himself excessively to girlfriends. Bob
does not have a drinking problem. Bob
does not worry about his body, even though he’s a little heavy.
Bob
has never been in therapy. Bob,
also, though, does not have tenure—ha ha ha—and Bob
cannot cook as well as I can. Bob

never even heard of paella, and if he had, Bob
would not have changed his facial expression at all. Bob
is just so boring, and what I can’t understand, Bob—
yes I’m talking to you again, is why you, Bob,
could be more desirable than me. Granted, Bob,
you’re more stable, you’re older, more mature maybe but Bob . . .

(Months later, on the Bob-front: My former girlfriend finally
married Bob.
Of Bob, she says, “No one has taken me higher or lower than
Bob.”
Me? On a dark and stormy sea of Bob-thoughts, desperately,
I bob.)

[TheImplodingVoice]

wow that was a really bad poem dear :cry:

[In Dust and Ashes]

why? I thought it was fun. it's not exactly eloquent or inspiring or "deep" in any way, but that doesn't really take away from it, I don't think.

[In Dust and Ashes]

how about this one?

my hat is old
my teeth are gold
I have a bird
I like to hold
my shoe is off
my foot is cold.

my shoe is off
my foot is cold
I have a bird
I like to hold
my hat is old
my teeth are gold

and now my story is all told.

it doesn't fall into specific form, but it is one of my most favoritiest poemes ever.

[In Dust and Ashes]

ewww.
I never caught on to robert frost.

[Dalton C Calhoun]

Yeah, Frost spent too much time playing with the tap. I mean Fire and Ice...come on...

[In Dust and Ashes]

is he the one that did "Once by the Pacific"?
I think that's the only one I really cared for.
that and the spider one.

other than that, they're all so boooooring.

[In Dust and Ashes]

you do realize that poem is dr. Seuss, right?

read one fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish. :):yes:

[In Dust and Ashes]

you rarely make sense, no?

[Trickster]

Feel free to criticise/critique this short poem:


she's a beautiful tragedy in skin-tight jeans
holding on for another time around
a partnered journey but taken alone
forecast the tide for the near past
and on into the drowning jungle
so flippant i talk but i'm shaking
now it's just one turntable til dawn
and i wonder if i want her

[In Dust and Ashes]

Originally posted by Richard Fish
Feel free to criticise/critique this short poem:


she's a beautiful tragedy in skin-tight jeans
holding on for another time around
a partnered journey but taken alone
forecast the tide for the near past
and on into the drowning jungle
so flippant i talk but i'm shaking
now it's just one turntable til dawn
and i wonder if i want her


beautiful tragedy has been done before a few too many times. try something else in it's place.

[Mark E. De Sade]

Originally posted by sirs please
Yes. Your poems make me proud to be a faggy Englishman!

[Trickster]

Originally posted by hambakmeritru
beautiful tragedy has been done before a few too many times. try something else in it's place.

tbh i have been thinking that myself... it's just annoying cos it fits the person this poem is about so well. i also don't like drowning jungle... but meh. it'll get a revision at some point.

[In Dust and Ashes]

you could probably find synanims for the words beautiful tragedy. you dont have to drasticly change the phrase, just reword it...
if a thesauras doesn't help for finding repacements, than try using metaphoric examples in it's place like...umm..."thorned rose" (to be cliche once again. haha.) but yeah, something like that.

[Trickster]

yeh i see what you mean. it's always tough to find something truly original. at least it doesn't sound like an emo poem (i think). what did u think of it apart from that phrase?

[In Dust and Ashes]

I think punctuation would help it flow a lot better.
usually I hate punctuation, but you have a lot of compound thoughts and ideas that all run together and puncutation marks would really help clear up which goes with what and how things relate. it would also help it read a lot more smoothley.

[Trickster]

Originally posted by hambakmeritru
I think punctuation would help it flow a lot better.
usually I hate punctuation, but you have a lot of compound thoughts and ideas that all run together and puncutation marks would really help clear up which goes with what and how things relate. it would also help it read a lot more smoothley.

I guess I just imagined the punctuation as being a comma at the end of each line, maybe thats not the best way it could be punctuated, but that's how I would read it.

[In Dust and Ashes]

really?
wow, than I'll have to read it a few times more to take it in....

[Trickster]

sarcasm, huh? :mad:

[sleepy sinner]

Originally posted by hambakmeritru
why? I thought it was fun. it's not exactly eloquent or inspiring or "deep" in any way, but that doesn't really take away from it, I don't think.

I liked it as a piece of writing. I'm sure people will want to debate it's worth as 'poetry' but it's a savvy little satire.

[In Dust and Ashes]

Originally posted by Richard Fish
sarcasm, huh? :mad:

no I was being serious. honest.

[Mark E. De Sade]

Originally posted by sirs please
May I kiss you on the knee? We can listen to The Smiths!

[Mark E. De Sade]

The sky is all red and fiery
Destruction everywhere
But still
I'm
Happy to be here
With you
Tonight, baby, tonight
As fire belches from the grids
And Death on his Hog skids,
I'm
Happy to be here
With you
Tonight, baby, tonight

[Trickster]

Originally posted by hambakmeritru
no I was being serious. honest.

OK then I will let you off. I just thought perhaps it was a little obvious and boring to punctuate with a comma at the end of every line, and so maybe you were taking the piss. :-p

[Barbara]

I'm not that shy,
And I'm not afraid.
So let me suck your cock
All goddamn day.

It's not that I don't want it
In my vagina,
But first let me lubricate it
With my saliva.

I can go fast,
Or I can go slow.
I'll make you feel it
Down in your toes.

Your breath comes faster,
And you tell me "Don't stop".
But don't worry baby,
I'll blow you till you pop.

I'll look in your eyes,
With my tongue on the tip.
I'll smack you on the ass,
And grab you by the hips...

So if you like what you hear,
You know I'll be around.
What could be better than a chick
Who loves to get down?

Some girls are all talk,
Their jaws just keep flappin',
But I know when to shut up...
So lets make it happen.


goddamn I'm bad :lol:

[TheImplodingVoice]

Damn...I'm extremely aroused

[Trickster]

Best poem yet, Babs!

[Atomsk Iscariot]

Originally posted by Copywrite Nigga
What warmth comes from a sun that rises over a frozen valley,
What good, can come from a heart that lay baron and desolate due to the mistakes of small minds. First criticism: end questions with question marks. Second: needless commas are bad.

I'll get around to the rest eventually.

[Celluloid Love]

I haven't really gotten that deep into it, but yeah, you're right.

[Kinbote]

I feel the need to steer this thread back toward greatness with some Larkin:

"High Windows"

When I see a couple of kids
And guess he's fucking her and she's
Taking pills or wearing a diaphragm,
I know this is paradise

Everyone old has dreamed of all their lives--
Bonds and gestures pushed to one side
Like an outdated combine harvester,
And everyone young going down the long slide

To happiness, endlessly. I wonder if
Anyone looked at me, forty years back,
And thought, That'll be the life;
No God any more, or sweating in the dark

About hell and that, or having to hide
What you think of the priest. He
And his lot will all go down the long slide
Like free bloody birds. And immediately

Rather than words comes the thought of high windows:
The sun-comprehending glass,
And beyond it, the deep blue air, that shows
Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.

[Atomsk Iscariot]

Utterly magnificent.

[Kinbote]

I can't tell whether you're a snide lad wanting a slap or not!

[Atomsk Iscariot]

Originally posted by UncleLester
I can't tell whether you're a snide lad wanting a slap or not! No sarcasm whatsoever. I find Larkin's work incredible.

[Atomsk Iscariot]

Recent bits and pieces written:

I put on her coat
and fancied myself
Nazi memorabilia.

And as I traced my origins
to when I bled all over
what would become
Mel Gibson's shag rug,

she whispered in my ear-

"hey,hey,
God's here."

[Atomsk Iscariot]

we are overexposed in this
vomitous new light -

i look, i look,
and i see

[Atomsk Iscariot]

in that moment
all you see are pointless vignettes -
the hand leaving the wetted eye
and moving towards
the shattered knee;

separate vases for
separate colors of
the same flower
(her favorite.
oh,
isn't it all so darling?);

the little antiseptic glances
from all around;
their smiles lifted gently by
exhausted balloons.

and you notice that,
in each,
there's a distinct lack of color.

[Kinbote]

...so, how about that weather we're having?

[Atomsk Iscariot]

Originally posted by UncleLester
...so, how about that weather we're having? That bad, eh?

Oh well.

[Kinbote]

Capital letters, please, and a rigid muscular structure, at the very least.

[Atomsk Iscariot]

Originally posted by UncleLester
Capital letters, please, and a rigid muscular structure, at the very least. Damned lack-of-capitals. I must still be clinging to my inner-16-year old. I've not a clue why I type my poetry out like that.

There's no rigid muscular structure primarily because these are just table scraps scrounged together after a three-month stretch of writer's block.

[Kinbote]

This is unexceptional but nice.



"Shakespeare"

Amid grandees of times Elizabethan
you shimmered too, you followed sumptuous custom;
the circle of ruff, the silv'ry satin that
encased your thigh, the wedgelike beard - in all of this
you were like other men... Thus was enfolded
your godlike thunder in a succinct cape.

Haughty, aloof from theatre's alarums,
you easily, regretlessly relinquished
the laurels twinning into a dry wreath,
concealing for all time your. monstrous genius
beneath a mask; and yet, your phantasm's echoes
still vibrate for us; your Venetian Moor,
his anguish; Falstaff's visage, like an udder
with pasted-on mustache; the raging Lear..
You are among us, you're alive; your name, though,
your image, too - deceiving, thus, the world
you have submerged in your beloved Lethe.
It's true, of course, a usurer had grown
accustomed, for a sum, to sign your work
(that Shakespeare - Will - who played the Ghost in Hamlet,
who lives in pubs, and died before he could
digest in full his portion of a boar's head)...

The frigate breathed, your country you were leaving,
To Italy you went. A female voice
called singsong through the iron's pattern
called to her balcony the tall inglesse,
grown languid from the lemon-tinted moon
and Verona's streets. My inclination
is to imagine, possibly, the droll
and kind creator of Don Quixote
exchanging with you a few casual words
while waiting for fresh horses - and the evening
was surely blue. The well behind the tavern
contained a pail's pure tinkling sound... Reply
whom did you love? Reveal yourself - whose memoirs
refer to you in passing? Look what numbers
of lowly, worthless souls have left their trace,
what countless names Brantome has for the asking!
Reveal yourself, god of iambic thunder,
you hundred-mouthed, unthinkably great bard!

No! At the destined hour, when you felt banished
by God from your existence, you recalled
those secret manuscripts, fully aware
that your supremacy would rest unblemished
by public rumor's unashamed brand,
that ever, midst the shifting dust of ages,
faceless you'd stay, like immortality
itself - then vanished in the distance, smiling.

--Vladimir Nabokov, 1924; translated by Dmitri Nabokov, 1988

[God Is a Concept]

A bitter cold winter night
conspirators at café tables
discussing mystic jails
The Revolution in america
already begun not bombs but sit
down strikes on top submarines
on sidewalks nearby City Hall--
How many families control the States?
Ignore the Government,
send your protest to Clint Murchinson.
The Indians won their case with Judge McFate
Peyote safe in Arizona--
In my room the sick junky
shivers on the 7th day
Tearful, reborn to the Winter.
Che Guevara has a big cock
Castro's balls are pink--
The Ghost of John F. Dulles hangs
over America like dirty linen
draped over the wintry red sunset,
Fumes of Unconscious Gas
emanate from his corpse
& hypnotize the Egyptian intellectuals--
He grinds his teeth in horror & crosses his
thigh bones over his skull
Dust flows out his asshole
his hands are full of bacteria
The worm is at his eye--
He's declaring counterrevolutions in the Worm-world,
my cat threw him up last
Thursday.
& Forrestal flew out his window like an Eagle--
America's spending money to overthrow the Man.
Who are the rulers of the earth?
New York, January 6, 1961

[Atomsk Iscariot]

I've been writing songs for you for years,
but they never stop seeming so genuinely
overwrought.

In their rickety battles for your affections,
their battles over
who steals most magnificently through the consumptive night,
they've only made the scars on our foreheads
seem less like empty catharses

and more like the empty movements
of a composer gently going deaf
in degrees.

[God Is a Concept]

june buzz

my eyes dull with demon spitted fireballs
other fireball in my chest beats with bleak, foolhardy love nonsense
father comes up lifts seedy shady green leaves
asks favor to bring ‘em down porch
spring season sees you & them
wearied not lacking I do a duty
that leaves entrails of sticky brown paper like things
that leave stickies on hands, knuckles, and upper biceps.
outside my tiny black grid window
next to the Christmas colored orchid
a june bug slams its coffee shell against soil
and tile grout while making the most awful noise
you can imagine. what a big body he has.
and what a small skull.

[Jackal]

Atomsk Iscariot, I like your poems. Nice feelings. Keep at it. :)

[Atomsk Iscariot]

Originally posted by Jackal
Atomsk Iscariot, I like your poems. Nice feelings. Keep at it. :) Thank you. :-o

[Nak Nak]

sieg heil!
vielen dank
your reich really stank

[Cool As Ice Cream]

me and my body
under the shower
no time to waste

(apparently the thread i posted this in earlier is gone.)

[Atomsk Iscariot]

I'm gonna kick you in the balls.
You're gonna fall.
You're gonna bawl.
I'm gonna guffaw..l.

[Nak Nak]

Originally posted by Atomsk Iscariot
I'm gonna kick you in the balls.
You're gonna fall.
You're gonna bawl.
I'm gonna guffaw..l.

let's take a ride on the lollercoaster
my friend was captured by a tribe, they gonna roast her

let's take a tour of the lolocaust
you must be pretty sick if you celebrate the holocaust!

let's jam in your lols royce
my dad has a weird accent, dunno what's up with his voice!

let's fly in the roflcopter
what a design, what an engine, it must really purr!

[Atomsk Iscariot]

Originally posted by Nak Nak
let's take a ride on the lollercoaster
my friend was captured by a tribe, they gonna roast her

let's take a tour of the lolocaust
you must be pretty sick if you celebrate the holocaust!

let's jam in your lols royce
my dad has a weird accent, dunno what's up with his voice!

let's fly in the roflcopter
what a design, what an engine, it must really purr! OMG IT'S SUFJAN STEVENS.

[Nak Nak]

Originally posted by Atomsk Iscariot
OMG IT'S SUFJAN STEVENS.

but he sucks:(

[Atomsk Iscariot]

Originally posted by Nak Nak
but he sucks:( I'm sorry, but your lollercoptering rhymes reminded me of this:

"Our stepmom we did everything to hate her
She took us down to the edge of Decatur
We saw the lion and the kangeroo take her
Down to the river where they caught a wild alligator

Sangamon River it overflowed
It caused a mudslide on the banks of the operator
civil war skeletons in their graves,
They came up clapping in the spirit of the aviator

The sound of the engines and the smell of the grain,
We go riding on the abolition grain train
Steven A. Douglas was a great debater,
But Abraham Lincoln was the great emancipator"

I like Sufjan :D.

[Nak Nak]

I'll try a new style now:

diet coke with lime
open by hand it says
my watch tells time
by hand? no other ways?

carbonation on tongue
fake lime, chemicals
my tastebuds are stung
the twins observe, hey gals.

[Atomsk Iscariot]

"cannibal: a novel"

I cannot drink your wine
and I can't just sleep here
and admire the cuts along your waist.

Nor can I calmly breathe in
these thousand collapsed hearts,
pressed deep into every
beautiful, fractured movement
of your creation.

No.

I can only bury your voluminous neck
in my insect hands. I can only suck
every blistered metaphor from your
fingertips and let them drip
down into my gullet like
so many ejaculated memories
of you and your magnificence. And
I can only leave the most elegant
trail of you just above
my lower lip.

[Atomsk Iscariot]

Originally posted by Nak Nak
I'll try a new style now:

diet coke with lime
open by hand it says
my watch tells time
by hand? no other ways?

carbonation on tongue
fake lime, chemicals
my tastebuds are stung
the twins observe, hey gals. These should be lyrics to a totally heavy metal song that Kris likes.

[Nak Nak]

Originally posted by Atomsk Iscariot
These should be lyrics to a totally heavy metal song that Kris likes.

it's way too deep for