Happy Atheist Forum

I couldn't find the poetry thread, so my apologies for making a new one if I just didn't look hard enough. :P



RULERS

By Fenton Johnson


It is said that many a king in troubled Europe would sell his crown for a day of happiness.

I have seen a monarch who held tightly the jewel of happiness.

On Lombard street in Philadelphia, as evening dropped to earth, I gazed upon a laborer duskier than a sky devoid of moon. He was seated on a throne of flour bags, waving his hand imperiously as two small boys played on their guitars the ragtime tunes of the day.

God's blessing on the monarch who rules on Lombard Street in Philadelphia.


I love this poem, as I have seen such monarchs in my life.

About the Author.

i met a treveller from an antique land

who said

two vast and trunless legs of stone stand in the desert

near them half sunk

ashattered visage lies

whose frown , and wrinkled lip

an sneer of cold command

tell that these passions well that scuptor read
which yet survuve

stamped on these lifeless things

the hand that mocked him\

and the heart that fed.

on the pedestal these words appear

my name is ozymandias

king of kingsd

look on my works ye mighty]\

and despar.

nothing beside remains

round the decay of that colossal wreck

boundless and bare

the lone and level sands stretch far away.




poetry is something that you can put in your head and keep. i have been screwing up my courage to memorize coleridges rhyme of the ancient mariner for some years. i may soon be obligated to do it.

The only thing that I have ever committed to memory by purpose was a table of integrals for a test in my second semester calculus class, which was techniques of integration. I ran a power shear at a shop that made all kinds of things from sheet goods. I cut thousands of the blanks for JBL speaker tweeter cones, for example. That shear's original use was for cutting paper sheet to size for the newspaper. It was set up so that one had to use both hands to make the blade descend. In the past it was only one hand, and people probably lost parts, thus the extra safety. But I digress. The next machine over was a press. The principal job for that was cutting separators for transformer plates for the local power utility. It was a really mindless task, only requiring one to place the die on the insulating material, swing the platen over, and press the buttons. In this case, two buttons, one under each thumb. If one put their hand(s) under that platen and it descended, one's hands would have ended up as thick as the gap, which was pretty small. Finally, the story. This task was really boring, so I copied the table of integrals out of my text onto a sheet of quad paper and taped it to the platen. Every time I repositioned the platen over the lower table, I'd look at an integral. When I swung the platen away, I'd think about that integral, and when I swung it back after repositioning the platen. I memorized PAGES of those integrals, in time for the test. Good thing too, because I got transferred back to the power shear a couple of days later. Guess they didn't like it that I was studying on company time. :lol:

you are absolutely bizarre.

:rofl:

Pot, meet kettle!

(https://c.tenor.com/6HL37ee7HhgAAAAM/steven-hyde-high.gif)
You guys are so bizarre.
Ay, dios, mio!
:lol:

 :rofl:

him first.

iknow all about OSHA zafety standards for bookbindig guillotines, although i cannot femember why . we used to have a foot treadle i  addition to the the hand switches.

but tbe calculus is over the top. . thats just weird brainy stuff.

Quote from: billy rubin on September 12, 2021, 04:01:44 AM
him first.

iknow all about OSHA zafety standards for bookbindig guillotines, although i cannot femember why . we used to have a foot treadle i  addition to the the hand switches.

but tbe calculus is over the top. . thats just weird brainy stuff.

Pff. I took on another 30 semester units of mathematics and about 60 semester units of physics for my physics degree. Plus, toss in some nuclear engineering on the side. Weird? Just a matter of perspective, I guess. My first job out of uni was working at a company that beat out two national labs for an isotope separation process. I didn't have much to do with it, as the process had been proven before I got there. I was hired to be the interface between the physicists and the mechanical engineers, based on my background. It took about 3 months of digging before I realized that the communication problem was based on my supervisor's and the mechanical design group's supervisor's inabilities to get along. :lol: I was very careful to make work for myself after that, because if I actually said what the problem was, I might get laid off... :lol: which happened 6 months later anyway, when the program was cancelled.

Math and physics contain much beauty. So does poetry, which we seem to have strayed from...

from my mothers womb i fell into the state

and hunched in its belly til my wetfurfroze

miles above the earth

loosedfrom its dream of life

i woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters

when i died they washed me out of the turretwith a hose

My favorite poet is/was Ogden Nash.  That confession will reveal my diminished level of sophistication.

i am unsophisticated too

twas windy, and th edirty crows

did screech and tumble in the sun

all mouldy were my wooden toes

and th emonster mouse did run

For poetry, I could dredge up some really low-brow limericks. Here's the world's shortest-

There was a young lad named Fürster
Screwed his girl 'til he burst her

there once was a girl from the dale

who filtered her shit through a veil

but her asshole was rotten

and the veil was old cotton

so she splattered all over the pail


sorry

I have a tin ear for poetry, which is an embarrassing confession, given my general interest in the arts. I am only able to appreciate two poets: Walt Whitman and Allen Ginsburg. I don't know what it says about me.

lol

The Nature Poem, by Richard Brautigan

The moon
is Hamlet
on a motorcycle
coming down
a dark road.
He is wearing
a black leather
jacket and
boots.
I have nowhere
to go.
I will ride
all night.

eliot drives me nuts i consider eliot to be pompous and self consciously affected in his smarmy intellectual style and pretentious and superficial appropriation of the literature of other cultures

and i keep coming back to his stuff over and over

i cant help myself

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
BY T. S. ELIOT

S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —
(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —
(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
               So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
               And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
               And should I then presume?
               And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ...

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet — and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"—
If one, settling a pillow by her head
               Should say: "That is not what I meant at all;
               That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
               "That is not it at all,
               That is not what I meant, at all."

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old ... I grow old ...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind?   Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

What do you call a smart poem?


A High-Q

8)

Quote from: Papasito Bruno on September 30, 2021, 01:50:11 PM
What do you call a smart poem?


A High-Q

8)

;D

A really quick pun

What is a smart poem called?

I'd say a High-Q

Quote from: Davin on September 30, 2021, 03:17:04 PM

Quote from: Papasito Bruno on September 30, 2021, 01:50:11 PM
What do you call a smart poem?


A High-Q

8)

;D

A really quick pun

What is a smart poem called?

I'd say a High-Q

That's a really good Hi-Q! 8)

I read this at my sister's funeral yesterday:

An extract from the poem Wherever You Go by the Monks of Western Priory

I don't know how you could get through that, reading it aloud. I teared up just reading it.  :hug:

Quote from: Dark Lightning on October 07, 2021, 11:02:12 PM
I don't know how you could get through that, reading it aloud. I teared up just reading it.  :hug:

Yeah, me too...very beautiful poem.

"The Garden" by Franta Bass.

Franta was a Czech Jewish boy born in Brno on 4 September 1930, deported to Theresienstadt ghetto on 2 December 1941 (He wrote the poem while he was in the ghetto).

He was murdered in Auschwitz on 30 October 1944.

(https://i.imgur.com/VvrRlaU.jpg)

(https://i.imgur.com/a0gUdCk.jpg)

^^
So sad.

No Images
by, Waring Cuney

She does not know
Her beauty,
She thinks her brown body
Has no glory.

If she could dance
Naked,
Under palm trees
And see her image in the river
She would know.

But there are no palm trees
On the street,
And dish water gives back no images.

stupid eliot

i was reciting crap from the wasteland last night

and then there was this


Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.

Allen and Walt say
that mister twenty fifteen
makes killer melktert

Yes, seems like poetry is less popular than it once was but it still has the power to evoke a fresh look at everyday things. Here's my contribution. I once titled it Apotheosis but recently decided to title it Only She Knows.

When I was a boy,
God was a bearded old man—
an unapproachable Father
who came down from the mountain
with a long list of naughty and nice.

In my prodigal youth,
God was a lawless young man—
a coming-of-age Adventurer
who chose self over service,
growing up over buckling down.

When I grew up,
God became a long-legged Goddess,
breathlessly beautiful and mellifluously mine
on moon-lit nights.

After the war,
God was a grim Reaper
bleeding my world of art, leaves and common sense.

Now,
with the years piled up like pages in a book,
one on top of the other,
God is a Mother
birthing and nursing our times together
and apart.

Only She knows,
when it's time to say goodbye,
what severance we will suffer,
what separation we must endure.

Quote from: Papasito Bruno on February 19, 2022, 06:24:51 PM
No Images
by, Waring Cuney

She does not know
Her beauty,
She thinks her brown body
Has no glory.

If she could dance
Naked,
Under palm trees
And see her image in the river
She would know.

But there are no palm trees
On the street,
And dish water gives back no images.

I meant to add that "No Images" was written by William Waring Cuney who was a poet of the Harlem Renaissance movement.  This poem first appeared in Opportunity IV, no. 42 (In June, 1926), where it tied for first and second place in the poetry section of Opportunity's literary contest. The poem was later adapted into a song by Nina Simone, which was featured on her 1966 album Let It All Out.

^^^Very nice, PB.

Quote from: No one on February 20, 2022, 12:08:11 AM
Allen and Walt say
that mister twenty fifteen
makes killer melktert

Analysis: This is a very aggressive haiku. Allen and Walt are clearly Allen Ginsburg and Walt Whitman, both of whom were avant-garde poets in their time. Mr. Twenty Fifteen is the year 2015.  Melktert is South African milk tart. This is symbolic of a sweet finish to the end of the world (the bottom of Africa).  So, Ginsburg and Whitman were prophesying the end of poetry (their world) in 2015. After that year, no valid poetry can be written, as all has been said.

They were wrong. 

Quote from: Ecurb Noselrub on February 21, 2022, 08:46:31 PM

Quote from: No one on February 20, 2022, 12:08:11 AM
Allen and Walt say
that mister twenty fifteen
makes killer melktert

Analysis: This is a very aggressive haiku. Allen and Walt are clearly Allen Ginsburg and Walt Whitman, both of whom were avant-garde poets in their time. Mr. Twenty Fifteen is the year 2015.  Melktert is South African milk tart. This is symbolic of a sweet finish to the end of the world (the bottom of Africa).  So, Ginsburg and Whitman were prophesying the end of poetry (their world) in 2015. After that year, no valid poetry can be written, as all has been said.

They were wrong.

Shut up. Just shut up. You had me at analysis. You had me at analysis!

Quote from: Papasito Bruno on February 26, 2022, 09:56:34 PM

Quote from: Ecurb Noselrub on February 21, 2022, 08:46:31 PM

Quote from: No one on February 20, 2022, 12:08:11 AM
Allen and Walt say
that mister twenty fifteen
makes killer melktert

Analysis: This is a very aggressive haiku. Allen and Walt are clearly Allen Ginsburg and Walt Whitman, both of whom were avant-garde poets in their time. Mr. Twenty Fifteen is the year 2015.  Melktert is South African milk tart. This is symbolic of a sweet finish to the end of the world (the bottom of Africa).  So, Ginsburg and Whitman were prophesying the end of poetry (their world) in 2015. After that year, no valid poetry can be written, as all has been said.

They were wrong.

Shut up. Just shut up. You had me at analysis. You had me at analysis!

I still don't get it.
But it's OK.

These tears are here to stay.
And some just wash away,
the me I used to be.
The clouds are rolling in,
they shroud the light that's been,
despite my drowning plea,
The radiance that once so bloomed,
is now perfectly consumed.
Darkness now prevails, it's all that's left to see.

  :felix:
:felix:

Quote from: No one on February 27, 2022, 01:44:10 PM
These tears are here to stay.
And some just wash away,
the me I used to be.
The clouds are rolling in,
they shroud the light that's been,
despite my drowning plea,
The radiance that once so bloomed,
is now perfectly consumed.
Darkness now prevails, it's all that's left to see.

That is sad. And deep.

But in defense of those of us who prefer gloom to sunshine, Darkness, is not so bad.
:felix:

I am not worth it
How I wish life would just quit
For this pile of shit

You are disgusting
Horrid, putrid, vile garbage
Why don't you just die

Quote from: No one on March 11, 2022, 04:47:45 AM
You are disgusting
Horrid, putrid, vile garbage
Why don't you just die

(https://ih1.redbubble.net/image.1827906686.4298/raf,750x1000,075,t,101010:01c5ca27c6.jpg)

Now I'm falling,
Into the
Darkness, that slowly steals my light.
Twisted,
By this, driving tide.
Slowly drowning, in these,
Bitter memories.
Broken and battered,
Perfectly shattered.
Left alone,
Forgotten and abandoned
As the emptiness begins
surrounding me
Filled to the brim,
With utter misery
Suffocating all my tomorrows.

How I wish for death
Or to have never been born
Yeah, that's the ticket

I was accused of blasphemy by Bananaman Ray Comfort for this doozy of a black eye below:

If God created man
in His own image, He is
a big naked ape.

Of course, I was being ridiculous. But, as Karl Marx, not Groucho Marx, said, "I treat the ridiculous seriously when I treat it with ridicule." I am not God. I am simply a man.

Charles Bukowski once said, "Poetry is what happens when nothing else can." And I happen to write it all the time.

Your own poetry is best forgotten, and then quickly remembered.

Little poetry makes sense which means a lot doesn't make any sense at all.

Quote from: MarcusA on April 24, 2023, 10:15:46 AMLittle poetry makes sense which means a lot doesn't make any sense at all.

That is generally true of human expression, depending on how much you put into "little" and "a lot," provided that they are relative to anything aside from each other. If not - there is plenty of art that does not make sense. There are whole stories of imaginary worlds that do not. Then there are just regular everyday opinions. A good chunk of them does not make much sense outside the person who thunk them - and maybe not even then, really.

Personally, I prefer poetry that tells a... How do I put it? A larger story than its verse. A good poem should paint an outline and augment the picture, which itself ought to be drawn by the reader's mind. That also makes it quite subjective, I think. Here are a couple in different styles that I personally consider good;

Kipling's Hyaenas

After the burial-parties leave
And the baffled kites have fled;
The wise hyaenas come out at eve
To take account of our dead.

How he died and why he died
Troubles them not a whit.
They snout the bushes and stones aside
And dig till they come to it.

They are only resolute they shall eat
That they and their mates may thrive,
And they know that the dead are safer meat
Than the weakest thing alive.

For a goat may butt, and a worm may sting,
And a child will sometimes stand;
But a poor dead soldier of the King
Can never lift a hand.

They whoop and halloo and scatter the dirt
Until their tushes white
Take good hold in the army shirt,
And tug the corpse to light,

And the pitiful face is shewn again
For an instant ere they close;
But it is not discovered to living men —
Only to God and to those

Who, being soulless, are free from shame,
Whatever meat they may find.
Nor do they defile the dead man's name —
That is reserved for his kind.

Putting in the seed by Frost

You come to fetch me from my work tonight
When supper's on the table, and we'll see
If I can leave off burying the white
Soft petals fallen from the apple tree.
Soft petals, yes, but not so barren quite,
Mingled with these, smooth bean and wrinkled pea;
And go along with you ere you lose sight
Of what you came for and become like me,
Slave to a springtime passion for the earth.
How Love burns through the Putting in the Seed
On through the watching for that early birth
When, just as the soil tarnishes with weed,
The sturdy seedling with arched body comes
Shouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs.

i met a traveler, from an antique land

Quote from: billy rubin on April 24, 2023, 02:41:41 PMi met a traveler, from an antique land

Methinks, I am a stranger in my own land. I mean, in one sense, a little sweet-nothing means more than a love letter, overwritten and overwrought.

What is poetry but mudslinging.

Whatever you believe, give me a tale of faerie and it will mean love.

The faerie killed, then ate everyone.

THE END.

Quote from: No one on April 25, 2023, 09:32:06 PMThe faerie killed, then ate everyone.

THE END.

Evil bloody fairy! It must die.

Life is too short to read everything. With poetry, one must be selective.

Do limericks qualify as poetry. They do have meter and rhyme....Thus

There once was a hermit named Dave
who kept a dead whore in his cave
said he I'll admit I'm a bit of a shit
but look at the money I save.

Definitely poetic.

There was also that one limerick about The Asmo's penis. :smilenod:

He co-wrote that one. Made a initial outcast and then someone else limericked it.

Crazy-arsed lizards
Shooting forwards,
Whizzing about,
In and out.
Crazy-arsed lizards.

This is a limerick of mine. I don't have the meter, but what the heck! it rhymes.

Prose poetry is indistinguishable from prose.

Life's a candle quickening
to the flame - whispers
in the dark of night

I am not going to fall over myself for a rhyme.

Will not tumble,
Will not fall.
Will not stumble,
Or falter at all.
Make the climb,
To my prime.
And in I chime,
With dramatic rhyme.

There once was a pirate named Gates
he did the fandango on skates
He slipped on his cutlass
which rendered him nutless
and practically useless on dates.

:rofl:

Rolling on floor
laughing out loud
Humorous limerick
Mr.Pam is wowed.
With jolly antics
Melted wings flying proud.
Standing out
within the crowd.

The cosmos nurtures nonlocal sensations
Nonlocal sensations nurture the cosmos
Cosmos nuturing non local sensations

there once was a woman named gail

who squeezed all her shit through a veil.

but her asshole was rotton

and the veil was thin cotton

so she splattered all over the pail.

thank you.

So hip to be tragic
the pudding of magic
with oded pen
of cosmic zen
where buzzin' Billy
unveiled the silly
on fabric weaving
splattered heaving.

I liked the meanderings of Ogden Nash. He did some humorous poetry but also had a knack for brevity. Example; "Candy is dandy but liquor is quicker".

World's shortest limerick-

There was a young man named Fürster
Fucked his girl 'til he burst her.

Quote from: Dark Lightning on May 02, 2023, 12:36:20 AMWorld's shortest limerick-

There was a young man named Fürster
Fucked his girl 'til he burst her.

Quote from: Dark Lightning on May 02, 2023, 12:36:20 AMWorld's shortest limerick-

There was a young man named Fürster
Fucked his girl 'til he burst her.

I know i don't like it
Must be something wrong
with you if you do

Quote from: billy rubin on May 01, 2023, 11:53:38 AMthere once was a woman named gail

who squeezed all her shit through a veil.

but her asshole was rotton

and the veil was thin cotton

so she splattered all over the pail.

thank you.

Lovely, would you show your daughter this?

Quote from: The Magic Pudding. on May 02, 2023, 02:35:15 PM

Quote from: billy rubin on May 01, 2023, 11:53:38 AMthere once was a woman named gail

who squeezed all her shit through a veil.

but her asshole was rotton

and the veil was thin cotton

so she splattered all over the pail.

thank you.

Lovely, would you show your daughter this?

He read it off a toilet door. Not applicable.

Quote from: The Magic Pudding. on May 02, 2023, 02:35:15 PM

Quote from: billy rubin on May 01, 2023, 11:53:38 AMthere once was a woman named gail

who squeezed all her shit through a veil.

but her asshole was rotton

and the veil was thin cotton

so she splattered all over the pail.

thank you.

Lovely, would you show your daughter this?

lol

absolutely

i have two daughtes. one is a plant physiologist who jumps out of airplanes, and the other is a maintenance engineer at a local hotel heading for a commercial eletrician apprenticeship.

i have heard much worse from both of them independently

'twas the night of the king's castration.
Everyone was having a ball.
All the counts, viscounts and discounts
Were sitting around the square table
Flinging camel turds, as bullshit as a phrase
Had not yet been invented
Shit flew at random
Random ducked, and some shit the king in the eye
"Shit", cried the king, and 29,000 royal subjects
Squatted and groaned, for in those days, the king's word was law.
Daniel walked into the court and inquired,
"Where's the Princess?"
"She's in bed with diarrhea", the king replied.
"What, that Greek bastard is back in town!?", Daniel responded
For his insolence, Daniel was tossed into the lion's den
Daniel grabbed a lion by a nut
"Ouch", said the lion
Daniel grabbed both of the lion's nuts
"Tee-hee, that tickles" said the lion
"What tickles?", inquired Daniel
"Testicles", replied the lion
And they chalked one up for the mangy beast
For this display of courage
Daniel was taken from the lion's den
Daniel walked into the court and inquired,
"Where's the Princess?"
"Oh, fuck the princess!", cried the king
And 29,000 loyal subjects were killed in a mad dash to the castle
For in those days the King's work was law.

Humour clean is muck.

Resistentialism -
rage against the machine.

I want to explode
in Hunter S. Thompson style
fireworks.

Boom, bang, pow
rapid expansion now
All cheer
for the loathing fear
Feeling glum
entry, in my diary of rum.
Now reap, what I have sewed
T minus 10, then I will explode.

I don't want to go on but I will go on.

On Film

"like tears in rain"
swept
away

If I cause pain, I have missed my mark.

Mark, that's the sound of a harelipped dog.

Poetry is best remembered incomplete.

Motpoteryin.

Genius is best remembered as a figment of the imagination.

Quote from: No one on May 19, 2023, 09:33:25 PMMotpoteryin.

What?

We all stride on the shoulders of giants.

When someone cries, Art, I reach for a pen to send a protest in.

Religious poetry of today is the pits.

Poetry runs like a film, the Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

Poetry well-written is an everlasting dream upon solid earth.

Jesus loves me
like a hole in the head - yes,
I am annoying.

I recommend Molly Guy.
She's like dark chocolate -
oh, so good.

You can find her poetry
on Facebook.

I recommend Bukowski
for those with nothing to do.

QuoteWaltzing Matilda whipped out her wallet
the sexy boy smiled in dismay
She took out four twenties 'cause she liked round figures
everybody's queen for a day
Oh, babe, I'm on fire and you know I admire your -
- body why don't we slip away
Although I'm sure you're certain, it's a rarity me flirtin'
sha-la-la-la, this way

Oh, sha-la-la-la-la, sha-la-la-la-la
hey, baby, come on, let's slip away

Luscious and gorgeous, oh what a humpin' muscle
call out the national guard
She creamed in her jeans as he picked up her knees
from off of the formica topped bar
And cascading slowly, he lifted her wholly
and boldly out of this world
And despite people's derision
proved to be more than diversion
sha-la-la-la, later on

And then sha-la-la-la-la, he entered her slowly
and showed her where he was coming from
And then sha-la-la-la-la, he made love to her gently
it was like she'd never ever come
And then sha-la-la-la-la, sha-la-la-la-la
when the sun rose and he made to leave
You know, sha-la-la-la-la, sha-la-la-la-la
neither one regretted a thing

Street Hassle
Hey, that cunt's not breathing
I think she's had too much
of something or other, hey, man, you know what I mean?
I don't mean to scare you
but you're the one who came here
and you're the one who's gotta take her when you leave
I'm not being smart
or trying to be cold on my part
and I'm not gonna wear my heart on my sleeve
But you know people get all emotional
and sometimes, man, they just don't act rational you know,
they think they're just on TV

Sha-la-la-la, man
why don't you just slip her away

You know, I'm glad that we met man
it really was nice talking
and I really wish that there was a little more time to speak
But you know it could be a hassle
trying to explain this all to a police officer
about how it was that your old lady got herself stiffed
And it's not like we could help
but there wasn't nothing no one could do
and if there was, man, you know I would have been the first
But when someone turns that blue
well, it's a universal truth
and then you just know that bitch will never fuck again
By the way, that's really some bad shit
that you came to our place with
but you ought to be more careful around the little girls
It's either the best or it's the worst
and since I don't have to choose
I guess I won't and I know this ain't no way to treat a guest
But why don't you grab your old lady by the feet
and just lay her out in the darkest street
and by morning, she's just another hit and run.
You know, some people got no choice
and they can never find a voice
to talk with that they can even call their own
So the first thing that they see
that allows them the right to be
why they follow it, you know, it's called bad luck.

Slipaway
well hey(man), that's just a lie,
it's a lie she tells her friends.
'cause the real song, the real song
where she won't even admit to herself
the beatin' in her heart.
It's a song lots of people know.
It's a painful song
a little sad truth
but life full of sad songs
penny for a wish
But wishin' won't make you a soldier.
With a pretty kiss for a pretty face
can't have its way
Y'know tramps like us, we were born to pay.

Love has gone away
and there's no one here now
And there's nothing left to say
but, oh, how I miss him, baby
Oh, baby, come on and slip away
come on, baby, why don't you slip away

Love is gone away
took the rings off my fingers
And there's nothing left to say
but, oh how, oh how I need him, baby
Come on, baby, I need you baby
oh, please don't slip away
I need your loving so bad, babe
please don't slip away

I recommend Ashley Capes's haiku, his free verse not so much.

There is a lot of ignorant people when it comes to haiku poetry.

Time to die.

https://imgur.com/gallery/uFftNxB

I don't trust dreams
like Benjamin Franklin but
the End is the end.

It ain't over till it's over.

The End is nigh for me, thank God.

Quote from: MarcusA on June 24, 2023, 07:03:32 AMThe End is nigh for me, thank God.

If that is so I'll thank God, Tod, Frog, anyone, everyone.

No-one is forcing the bastard above me to be here.

twas windy

and the dirty crows

did screech and tumble, in the sun.

all mouldy were my wooden toes,

and th emonster mouse did run.

A time to be born and a time to die; and betwixt is strangeness.

How strange is haiku,
it is so good, forever
alone.

The people prefer trash
to treasure, they have no taste.

I prefer trash to treasure.

The river flows
from the veins of the earth,
cutting through the land.