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Damn man, thanks for the dedication. I like this poem bunches. I forgot that I had posted my poem, and am only seeing now that a couple people really dig it... So thanks to everyone for the praise. |
some untitled shit:
Riddles about street walkers and their dirty quims tempting the corrupted youth who hang in the deathclock of media's mask. blank checks donated to life and taxed for war, theres still more dead than there are one dollar bills. Life is hard but it does not deserve biographies of those who stole it and those whom own it, and those who destroy it. we are animals, sound is sound, nothing more. we are being, all else is nothing. |
amen
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this is really, really impromptu and not well thought-out, but . . .
man is not capable of thinking having thrown his mind on the floor to feed the rats and other predatory beasts (politicians demagogues the catholic church and the seventytwovirginsreadyfordefloweringinthenonexiste ntafterworld) yet it is only the thinking man who will win the world his happiness and him self eg newton aristotle jefferson galileo and all the other intellectual Giants of human history were assuredly deaf for if not they could not have helped but failed to hear their own drummers for they would be drowned out by white noise |
top 40 squeeze : in response to your rep.
any kind of danc eyou want man |
A piece of a poem about war...
Excuse the soldier Excuse the president War is in their job descriptions And they've got families to feed And they'll have to live a thousand lives of suffering If their actions are tainted by greed Excuse the radio-listening family man He's only paranoid that his seed Will be swept away in a nuclear tidal wave His love of the easy life is excusable It's impossible to say "I don't want to be care free" And it's difficult to know what care free means Excuse the commentator who sees the same things In two different words: "governments" and "countries" And thru years of reading newspapers And gazing at soulless maps Forgot that the people on the other side of the border Are the same as you and me Excuse them, but do not excuse yrself When you see misery manifest itself on TV |
Hunter's game is almost over
as he creeps about the clovers he's looking for the biggest catch since last tuesday, so long ago release the tension, release all of it So now he's underground he should've known beforehand hindsight is the greatest blessing of all too bad it's useless now Hunter's game is almost over so close now sight undone by new obsolescence Eyes only in the way and taking up space Get them out of the way and defeat all evil. |
Poetry is gay
Poetry is gay. I slit my wrists about emo shit cuz poetry is gay. |
and so; apparently; are you! :)
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Arr, t3h clever you are. Have a cookie, smiling ass. |
People who use gay out of context like you are fucking stupid.
And i don't even write poetry. |
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I try to fuck the stupid often. and making assumptions over the internet is gay. |
Thanks, Decimaster321... I'll have it with my milk...
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Lol cum isn't milk, stop being a whore
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word!
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Let's keep the poems coming... coming...
*Breaded* If I could have I would have breaded her innocence, Gotten all sticky in her yolk, her runny sometimes bloody yolk, Wrapped her in eggwash and breadcrumbs, Baked at 350 for 40, Watched her slip off the bone. Would've Could've Can't Won't. So now she's got raw chicken lips puckered like sashimi side And I'm battering a million wives Just to thicken the sauce. |
A quick ditty that could probably use something at the end:
I am an imperfect being I planted tomato seeds when I was seventeen But didn't get rid of the weeds And now I don't have my own fruit To eat and share with friends I'm nearly twenty two years old And I still haven't learned How to touch my toes Even though they tried to show me When I was in Elementary school I never bothered to reach any farther Than I could already go |
leaves fall like rain
onto concrete below swept around your feet they hurry and twirl like eager dancers en dedans pirouette clockwork and trim angular, bleeding edges fall and crumple onto earth broken dirt heaps burn. |
Ageless dreams of men slowly carved to the retina of society.
Women in tattered dresses of charcoal walking down the street in their might. All the children playing with the ball made of rocks and metal and the lost of imagination. This all in the world within the haze of angelic towns. |
Gay this, gay that, gay, gay, gay. Ever read Peter Pan by J. M. Barrie?
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