# Post a fucking pome then



## DotCommunist (Jan 9, 2009)

I believe the title is a succinct and pithy indicator the purpose of this thread. except that I meant post one of your fucking pomes. Fail


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## Santino (Jan 9, 2009)

Adam
had 'em.


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## isitme (Jan 9, 2009)

Alex B said:


> Adam
> had 'em.



Eve
was naive


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## DotCommunist (Jan 9, 2009)

Alex B said:


> Adam
> had 'em.



truly, the essential creation myth of the western world distilled into two sentences. Please sir, more nuggets of wisdom.


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## Dillinger4 (Jan 9, 2009)

Adam & Eve
Not Adam & Steve


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## Sweet FA (Jan 9, 2009)

Mary had a little lamb,
It was always gruntin
She tied it to a 5 bar gate
And kicked its little cunt in. 

















Thank you Monty Python.


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## skunkboy69 (Jan 9, 2009)

There was a young girl from Lunt...............


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## Santino (Jan 9, 2009)

Dot Communist
No somnambulist


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## quimcunx (Jan 9, 2009)

Sweet FA said:


> Mary had a little lamb,
> It was always gruntin
> She tied it to a 5 bar gate
> And kicked its little cunt in.
> ...



It's meant to be your own work. 



I fear Dottie, you have set the wrong tone.  Perhaps you could try and salvage this pisspoor thread with one of your own pomes.


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## Santino (Jan 9, 2009)

Quimcunx
blows chunks


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## Dillinger4 (Jan 9, 2009)

quimcunx said:


> It's meant to be your own work.
> 
> 
> 
> I fear Dottie, you have set the wrong tone.  Perhaps you could try and salvage this pisspoor thread with one of your own pomes.



I might post one of mine up a little bit later.


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## Sweet FA (Jan 9, 2009)

quimcunx is a poster
who rolls her* fucking eyes
every time she does it
another kitten dies







*if she's a girl like


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## DotCommunist (Jan 9, 2009)

Dillinger4 said:


> I might post one of mine up a little bit later.



I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours


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## Santino (Jan 9, 2009)

Sweet FA
makes me gay
(not in what way)


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## quimcunx (Jan 9, 2009)

Alex B said:


> Quimcunx
> blows chunks





Sweet FA said:


> quimcunx is a poster
> who rolls her* fucking eyes
> every time she does it
> another kitten dies




I'm a muse!  I'm a fuckin' muse!


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## bluestreak (Jan 9, 2009)

you asked...


Sit By The River Long Enough 

I used to envy those for whom
Youth was a gentle stroll
Through green and rolling foothills,
Punctuated by friendly country pubs;
Good ale, and nourishing food.


When for me it felt a nightmare climb,
Through freezing fog and valley banditry.
Gaol-term pauses, and prison bitch love.
Climbing jagged fucking cliffs naked and cold,
Eating shit, every meal.


I used to envy those for whom
Life seemed so secure.  Cathedral strong,
Rooted in faith, history and strength,
Trustworthy, hallowed and adored.
Echoed prayers for millenia.


When for me it was a terror run through
Quicksand, thick mud, burning lime,
An atom in the vast, a tiny expression
Of hurt and fear.  A jackboot on the
Human face for ever.


These days are gone.  Envy seems so fragile.
Life is still a climb, but it needs no guile.
If it seems a risk, I say take a while.


(_A seagull flys frantically against the wind,_
_rolls and drops.  Alights the air, and calmly waits.)_


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## bluestreak (Jan 9, 2009)

this one got published.  i'm not convinced they were right tbh.

Troublemakers.


They were labelled trouble-makers
though naturally they thought themselves heroes,
And the crueller newspapers named names;
Assigned monetary values to the blamed.


A decade might seem a long time; maybe yes, maybe no.
But it happened here and shaped lives.
Young Jason, paint splattered and awed, is adult now,
Carries still the flame, the power to say no.


And to act it: No.  When patriarchal eyes return to abandoned communities,
Imposing change with a glance... we've learnt.


So the towers could still rise, banners and bunting
Could twist and turn and flash in suburban breeze.
Rubble-filled stairwells sleep now to wake in bailiffs' paths,
A future of bulldozers and bare boards holds no fear.


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## Santino (Jan 9, 2009)

Bluestreak
pome bleak


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## bluestreak (Jan 9, 2009)

this is a kind of nice one...

* On Moving On Again. *

Could they call it dusty pink?
Edged with yellow, the curving pastel
          velvet of sleeping
Tulips.


          Tulips seem so out-of-place.  The man,
I know, doesn't like cut flowers.  He
          doesn't approve.


Doesn't like pink, can't abide pastels;
Yet here are ten blooms reaching up
Amongst the spires of green,


Randomly dumped in a stolen pint glass
On a dark wood shelf, somewhere in the glare
Of a new beginning.


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## DotCommunist (Jan 9, 2009)

oh frabjuose joy, an uber geek one I done ages ago. The poison chalice of being righ about sci fi on the internet is the reward for the poster who identifies every author.



Consider Phlebas, you dune messiah, you stranger in a strange land
Look to windward, you altered carbon, you woken furies.
You gridlinked neuromancers, you lensmen,
Sending your starship troopers on a Space Odyssey
Pandoras star blazes in nights dawn, where the skinner draws a line of polity
A neutronium alchemist sails a redemption ark, in revelation space 
Pushing ice.
Pushing ice to the absolution gap

Forever war, that feersum endjinn 
Forever free, from use of weapons
Forever peace, against a dark background


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## bluestreak (Jan 9, 2009)

This is a pastoral one


Chalk.

The air on the hillside is summer soft.
I am heavy with the weight of years.
I exist for the wait of years.

Some say the Romans knew
The key to my gates.

Others say only I know
          and I am not telling.

My turf is cool.  Once sheep-cropped
         now tended.  Once free, now fenced.

They call them firles: the fields where
I lay.  The chalky downs hum with a

Quiet life, though rabbits and hares
          will not step within lance-reach.

And even the birds cannot fly too near.
But people have ever come.  In their

Ones, twos and packs.  I am still
Worshipped.  Confusing me with another

I am a bed for the barren.

Or a symbol, of times gone; to be studied,

Cherished and preserved.  Though in truth
My time is yet to come.  Neil showed

That Shakespeare knew; and perhaps he did,
For the markets and fairs at my feet

Softened me.  But still I lie, waiting
Watching, holding my secrets as firmly

As I hold my poles.  Perhaps one day
You will learn.  The loves and

Hates of the earth are older than your
Race, and the gods who could placate are dead.


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## bluestreak (Jan 9, 2009)

heh, yep, that was UBER-geek dot!


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## Dillinger4 (Jan 9, 2009)

Alex B said:


> Bluestreak
> pome bleak


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## pogofish (Jan 9, 2009)

DotCommunist said:


> except that I meant post one of your fucking pomes. Fail



Not exactly one of mine:







But you get the idea.


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## isitme (Jan 9, 2009)

*Love is...*

love is forgiveness
because if she loves me she will forgive me

even for being a total scumbag
and not being any good for her

love is incredible
because how i waws raised, i never thought anyone would be more important to me than me

love is basically giving up all of you dreams
i will never have that 3some in paris with the blonde whores because love is better

love is admitting you are wrong
on every leverl and everything you dreamed about is wrong, because you are in love

and that includes all of your ideas. you don't get it, cos you love her

love is accepting who you are, and who she is. and you are both freaks, and you are both wrong, but you are in love

love is that time when you meet and don't love each other but you strill have love

and it's all the people you want to have sex with mean nothing in the faceof love

and love is we will never be able to have kids

and love is i don't want your fucking kids

and love is turning up to your house at 3 in the morning and it's ok

and love is something you do when you are 22

but real love is not for young people

it's accepting

and sending text messages

and i x is nothing
and 2 is maybe
and 3 is sex

and love is i am happy that you are happy and i don't resent you at all. but i fucking do. and i love you

and love is.....?


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## Santino (Jan 9, 2009)

M Banks, Herbert, Heinlein, Clarke, F Hamilton and some I don't know without google. Gibson. Reynolds.


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## bluestreak (Jan 9, 2009)

this is the trouble.  even my happy poems are miserable FFS.


here, this is a positive one and it's still fucking miserable.

Ivy

Ivy on the brickwork
- a green fascia.
holding fast.
You can

pull it away.
But...
Marks will always stay:

Scars of intrusion
show where the thousand fingers
gripped.

Solid-stuck cords, prison tight,
never to release their hold.

Visible damage too, chips and weakness.

Perhaps, on reflection, it could be better to remain
free;
than to give yourself to ivy.


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## Santino (Jan 9, 2009)

Dillinger
4
Rest of World
nil


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## bluestreak (Jan 9, 2009)

bloody hell isitme, and i thought mine were miserable!


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## isitme (Jan 9, 2009)

bluestreak said:


> bloody hell isitme, and i thought mine were miserable!



that's one of my happy ones


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## Cid (Jan 9, 2009)

This was my poem on the New Years thread:

tick
the old one fades
Bulls rejoice
Bears sink
We fall on our own blades

tock
A sharp tatoo of gunfire
Finally, a voice
But drink
We are still in the mire

I was quite pleased with it at the the time, but on sober reflection is was possibly not the work of genius I had hoped for.

<waits for cheesypoof to turn up>


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## Santino (Jan 9, 2009)

isitme
epitome
of posting joy
ninjaboy


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## bluestreak (Jan 9, 2009)

is pushing ice yours, dot?  i like that but my scifi begins and ends with general knowledge and iain m banks.


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## bluestreak (Jan 9, 2009)

Cid said:


> 1. But drink
> We are still in the mire
> 
> 2. <waits for cheesypoof to turn up>



1. love it.

2. ohgods.


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## isitme (Jan 9, 2009)

*Incurable Romantic*

you are a very sensitive
and interesting individual

i would really like to learn about you
and what makes you unique

i find your troubles interesting
more interesting than most

now let me spunk in your mouth


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## isitme (Jan 9, 2009)

*Mediciine*

it isn't really medicine
it makes me sick
but medicine never cures the illness

and i still keep taking the medicine
even as my body is falling apart
even as i lose all my friends

my idea of myself is full of holes
but the medicine that i pour in never fills them
and because its cheap medicine, it ends up burning the full bits
so the holes get bigger

so why do i keep taking the medicine?
even when it takes me further away from the cure?

i don't know
the emptiness was there before

and the cure were a shit band


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## isitme (Jan 9, 2009)

*Because we don't need to say it*

(this is a nice one)

It'll never be perfect, how we imagined
Whatever you give me is enough
As long as you keep being you
as long as you know
and i know you know


Just for you
I want to be who I want to be
I know you
I think I've known you forever
past lives
maybe the same
not together


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## Santino (Jan 9, 2009)

isitme said:


> you are a very sensitive
> and interesting individual
> 
> i would really like to learn about you
> ...





isitme said:


> it isn't really medicine
> it makes me sick
> but medicine never cures the illness
> 
> ...



You are Sean Hughes in his Still Working And On TV Period.


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## ShiftyBagLady (Jan 9, 2009)

*thumbs up and everything*



bluestreak said:


> this is a kind of nice one...
> On Moving On Again.



I like this one.


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## isitme (Jan 9, 2009)

*She still has my rucksack*

So it was all fucked up
of course
we were both fucked up
and we were both fucked up

Then we kept saying it was the last time
and i never want to see you again

but neither of us had anywahere to go

So the last time i saw you
when you put all your things in your bag
and your bag broke because it was shit
i never even said goodbye properly
because you would be back soon


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## bluestreak (Jan 9, 2009)

alright, last one from me as the missus has bought wine and i can stop being emo for the night.

Sitting on the train back to Penn
I find myself thinking.

My father's work-bag. Square, heavy, mysterious.
The tools of his trade. A magic kit, weighty, worthy, unknown.

No childish hands could penetrate the buckles and straps.
I was too young for the hermetic secrets sealed within.

A few stray glimpses of the contents captivated me, fetishes held and
Worshipped and wondered over. Like the

Small green notebooks he always used. Hard-covered and
Lightly ruled, and filled with his tiny condensed hand.

And to this day I wonder what he wrote in this script of his.
Diaries or musings? Ideas or wordplay? Observations to pass the long dark hours.

As a child I wrote obsessively so I never thought it strage.
Indeed, I still find myself confused by adults who don't carry notebooks.

He had torches too. A green one and a red one. Square, functional and ancient.
Solid metal, with carrying handles. The magic of coloured lights.

Shining like love in the dirty tunnels.
A spark of life in the choking roaring gloaming.

Other things too. A small, slim old-fashioned flask.
It was smoky-blue and had a metal cap.

Portable radio, small for the time. His driver's hat,
Peaked and important. An enigmatic set

Of metal tools, like the magic keys from
My fantasy books. All strange shapes and unknown uses.

I now know them to be keys to tool-boxes and storage bins. But the mystery
Of keys endures. I cannot ignore a lost key in the street, or the bottom of drawers.

What else? Memory fails. I decode my life's intricacies through
One child's obsession with his father's roundeled bag.


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## isitme (Jan 9, 2009)

*My parents laughing*

i heard my parents laughing together
which made me pleased
and sad

i was happy becuase they only stayed together for the kids
gave their life up for us
my dad left and then came back
and i can't ever repay him for that

but sad because they are old
and because they are happy because we turned out ok
and we can never live up to the expectations




right I wrote all those this summer when I was really low, I'll not inflict anymore till I next get pissed


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## dodgepot (Jan 9, 2009)

becky cries
steve lies


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## TomPaine (Jan 9, 2009)

There once was a lass from Nantucket,
Whoes cunt was the size of a bucket,
She said to the horse,
who'd just run the course
Come here big boy and fuck it...


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## DotCommunist (Jan 9, 2009)

isitme said:


> love is forgiveness
> because if she loves me she will forgive me
> 
> even for being a total scumbag
> ...



you just made my mum cry


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## dolly's gal (Jan 9, 2009)

men seldom make passes
at girls who wear glasses 

(utter shite of course, but you gotta love dorothy parker )


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## marty21 (Jan 9, 2009)

*fuck it*

push


the door closes
and i push
you against the
wall
and kiss you

i wish you were
wearing a skirt
so that i could
run my hands
roughly
on your warm
skin

i smell your
neck
and deeply inhale
a citrus smell
which i like

you push me
back
and we topple to the
floor
you are on top now
and i feel
you pushing
down on my chest

your hands undo
buttons on my
shirt
and then you loosen
my tie and pull it
over my head

the shirt follows
and you scratch my chest
you own me now

i run my hands
slowly
up your back
as you kiss me
and then
stop

you undress


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## dolly's gal (Jan 9, 2009)

push















it real good...


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## DotCommunist (Jan 9, 2009)

nother one from the vault of old skool


> Cold clothes in the morning, still dark
> as the shades I'll be wearing. Winter
> sings for black. For woolens dyed to midnight.
> 
> ...


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## Dillinger4 (Jan 9, 2009)

I really like that one, marty.


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## dolly's gal (Jan 9, 2009)

AFTER THE LUNCH

On Waterloo Bridge where we said our goodbyes,
the weather conditions bring tears to my eyes.
I wipe them away with a black woolly glove
And try not to notice I've fallen in love

On Waterloo Bridge I am trying to think:
This is nothing. you're high on the charm and the drink.
But the juke-box inside me is playing a song
That says something different. And when was it wrong?

On Waterloo Bridge with the wind in my hair
I am tempted to skip. You're a fool. I don't care.
the head does its best but the heart is the boss-
I admit it before I am halfway across

Wendy Cope


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## quimcunx (Jan 9, 2009)

Bypass

I turned back and looked,
Clutched at my breath.
Would this be the last time
I saw my mother?

I faced the work screen,
Checked the clock once again.
I shut my wet eyes, and
I saw my mother.

I was met at the station,
Status report over tea
Then up to the ward, where
I saw my mother.

We joked in our relief.
The black box spiked away.
With that scar on her chest,
I saw my mother.

An irregular heartbeat,
Staple ladders up her legs.
Both mended and broken,
I saw my mother

She slept in her chair,
Like a rag doll nurse said,
Old and so frail, suddenly
I saw my mother.

Through her transparent skin
Still her heart beats  --
Mortal, for the first time
I see my mother.


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## isitme (Jan 9, 2009)

DotCommunist said:


> you just made my mum cry



is she fit?


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## quimcunx (Jan 9, 2009)

Dillinger4 said:


> I might post one of mine up a little bit later.



Do. 



dolly's gal said:


> AFTER THE LUNCH
> 
> On Waterloo Bridge where we said our goodbyes,
> the weather conditions bring tears to my eyes.
> ...


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## marty21 (Jan 9, 2009)

*another one*



dolly's gal said:


> push
> 
> 
> 
> ...





Dillinger4 said:


> I really like that one, marty.



Cheers peeps

another one



View

I watch you as you reach down
enjoying the brief glimpse of 
cleavage
the lacy black bra
I want to cup those breasts
to be behind you
reaching around
feeling your nipples harden

our eyes meet as you straighten up
a brief flash of understanding
a shared fantasy


you offer to make a coffee
and disappear from view


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## isitme (Jan 9, 2009)

martyr you silver fox


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## quimcunx (Jan 9, 2009)

DotCommunist said:


> you just made my mum cry



And why not.  Nothing like a good cry over a pome.


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## marty21 (Jan 9, 2009)

isitme said:


> martyr you silver perve



i know


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## Johnny Canuck3 (Jan 9, 2009)

First heard in grade 3:

Fleas:
Adam
Had 'em.


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## Dillinger4 (Jan 9, 2009)

see post #2


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## dolly's gal (Jan 9, 2009)

marty21 said:


> reaching around
> feeling your nipples harden



 that's fucking porn!!!!!!!!!!!!!! he said pome not porn!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


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## Johnny Canuck3 (Jan 9, 2009)

Exactly.

One third of the poem was missing.


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## DotCommunist (Jan 9, 2009)

what building do I describe, northampton urbs?

What’s permanent for a city boy?
The rearing stone and steel?

They emphasis the constant of change
mock by their impermanence.

There’s no genius at my local
just sodden opinion and slurred wit.

The ripped bags of household shit, the stink of oil
on a summer night, half feral cats

Fully feral teens and sodium-lit
brutalities of building. 

These things are more constant than wilted park flora,
than wishes made to old woods and wells.

Alone the lift-tower stands, its time long passed,
a great one fingered salute to the sky.

Crowned midwinter with a lit tree,
perhaps this abandoned marvel  

has stained my memory and cast a pointed 
shadow on imperfect memory


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## Cid (Jan 9, 2009)

I can't believe you just used 'memory' twice in as many lines DC. You fucking amateur.


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## dolly's gal (Jan 9, 2009)

*Two Cures for Love*

Don't see him. Don't phone or write a letter.
The easy way: get to know him better.

wendy cope


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## DotCommunist (Jan 9, 2009)

Cid said:


> I can't believe you just used 'memory' twice in as many lines DC. You fucking amateur.



hey it's raw shit from the vault, suck my balls


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## Cid (Jan 9, 2009)

DotCommunist said:


> hey it's raw shit from the vault, suck my balls



'Shit' being the operative word.


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## marty21 (Jan 9, 2009)

dolly's gal said:


> that's fucking porn!!!!!!!!!!!!!! he said pome not porn!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


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## isitme (Jan 9, 2009)

Love is like a tiger in the woods at night
Invisible to sight, seen by starlight
100% organic, romantic, worth more than any thing on any planet
Love causes commotion, even corrosion
love is like an ocean, of raw emotion
Slide into it gently, on entry, I send you all my thoughts on a lightbeam

We go way back, back in the day
When men were made of mud, women out of clay
Maybe we melted together in the heat
Written in the stars, story never complete


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## dolly's gal (Jan 9, 2009)

Dorothy Parker: 
"One Perfect Rose"

A single flow'r he sent me, since we met.
All tenderly his messenger he chose;
Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet--
One perfect rose.
I knew the language of the floweret;
"My fragile leaves," it said, "his heart enclose."
Love long has taken for his amulet
One perfect rose.

Why is it no one ever sent me yet
One perfect limousine, do you suppose?
Ah no, it's always just my luck to get
One perfect rose.


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## DotCommunist (Jan 9, 2009)

Cid said:


> 'Shit' being the operative word.



this is the point where I find myself typing yeah but your mum


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## dolly's gal (Jan 9, 2009)

DotCommunist said:


> this is the point where I find myself typing yeah but *your mum*



it's like you're ted hughes or something!


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## Johnny Canuck3 (Jan 9, 2009)

I remember standing on the corner at midnight
Trying to get my courage up
There was this long lovely dancer in a little club downtown
I loved to watch her do her stuff
Through the long lonely nights she filled my sleep
Her body softly swaying to that smoky beat
Down on mainstreet


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## Cid (Jan 9, 2009)

DotCommunist said:


> this is the point where I find myself typing yeah but your mum



<does pelvic thrusts and arse-slapping gestures>

Yeah, you _know_ you just got _pwned_ on the internet. Looser.

I'm off to have wank in front of my mirror.


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## dolly's gal (Jan 9, 2009)

Cid said:


> I'm off to have wank in front of my mirror.



will you think of yourself, or your mum???


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## Demosthenes (Jan 9, 2009)

I saw my daughter last christmas, 
I don't know if I'll see her again,
It was difficult to keep it together, 
keep smiling and act normal, when, 
all the time mainly I'm wondering, 
- if I should continue this life, 
- it all seems increasingly pointless,
no job and no friends and no wife. 

Next week the benefits doctor 
will decide if I should be cut off. 
Am I crazy enough to look after, 
Or am I just a crap whinging toff?
Will I ever have something to offer, 
Would I ever be much of a dad, 
It certainly seems like she loves me, 
I don't want to make anyone sad. 

But it's not just my own situation, 
with its dusty remains of a life, 
it's also the hope of a new world,
that makes me think of a knife. 

What's the message and where is the guidance,? 
I asked for a meaningful sign, 
something I just couldn't wonder about, 
Something to tell me it's time. 
I don't think I want to go under. 
It just seems like I don't have a choice.  
I should have done something extraordinary, 
That's why she gave me a voice. 
But no-one's particularly interested, 
and why should they be when I've lost? 
It's so fucking obvious it's over, 

Anyway... 
My daughter told me a story, 
And she told it a number of times, 
I'll tell it to you, just one version, 
But I'm afraid it's not made of rhymes. 

It went:  "there was a bella rabbit and a daddy rabbit.  The bella rabbit said to the daddy rabbit, -- Daddee,  Daddee, Daddee, Daddee, Daddee, --
the daddy rabbit jumped out of the window, and the bella rabbit said,  Daddee,  Daddee, Daddee, Daddee,  Daddee. Daddee.  

Well that certainly cleared that up didn't it.


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## bluestreak (Jan 9, 2009)

isitme said:


> you are a very sensitive
> and interesting individual
> 
> i would really like to learn about you
> ...




top notch.  lovely scansion, larkinesque pay off.


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## bluestreak (Jan 9, 2009)

DotCommunist said:


> you just made my mum cry



i liked that one on an emotional honesty level but not as poetry.  it touched me, but i'm not sure where it belongs literarily.


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## bluestreak (Jan 10, 2009)

Dillinger4 said:


> I really like that one, marty.




ditto.  v. far removed from anything i could write.


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## bluestreak (Jan 10, 2009)

DotCommunist said:


> nother one from the vault of old skool




it's a pome but it didn't speak to me.  what's the hidden shit?


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## Dillinger4 (Jan 10, 2009)

Johnny Canuck2 said:


> I remember standing on the corner at midnight
> Trying to get my courage up
> There was this long lovely dancer in a little club downtown
> I loved to watch her do her stuff
> ...



That is a Bob Seger song. Post up your own pome.


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## bluestreak (Jan 10, 2009)

quimcunx said:


> Through her transparent skin
> Still her heart beats  --
> Mortal, for the first time
> I see my mother.




heartbreaking, maybe some deeper metaphor?  it's wonderful confessional but i feel that it could be hidden beneath something and shock the reader?


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## bluestreak (Jan 10, 2009)

DotCommunist said:


> what building do I describe, northampton urbs?
> 
> What’s permanent for a city boy?
> The rearing stone and steel?
> ...



i don;t know northampton but i love this.


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## bluestreak (Jan 10, 2009)

demosthenes, you win at metre and rhyme.  also, honestly.  lush.


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## Dillinger4 (Jan 10, 2009)

bluestreak said:


> i don;t know northampton but i love this.



Same. I love it.


----------



## bluestreak (Jan 10, 2009)

I wrote this on a plane, about as far removed from the subject matter as a human could be.  then i couldn't think of any way to improve it.  this has also been published but i'm proud of that, as, despite it's inadequacies as poetry, it represents me very well.

I have a dream of earth
The force of will that shoves weeds
Through concrete.

Imagine the strength. A desire so
Strong that mere foliage achieves
What we cannot do with flesh.

No punch so powerful as vegetable effort,
A need for light and life that conquers
Human creation.

This is my dream. Gradual force like
The seasons changing. A hope so strong
That pavements crumble.

Imagine the things I could achieve
If I was dandelion strong. Imagine the
Future; foliage parting flagstones

Forever.


----------



## quimcunx (Jan 10, 2009)

bluestreak said:


> heartbreaking, maybe some deeper metaphor?  it's wonderful confessional but i feel that *it could be hidden beneath something and shock the reader?*





An exercise in the form of the poem informing the content, or summat. I mostly wanted it to be simply stated, not florid.  I started to do something more flippant but she'd had the bypass recently so that was the strongest image.  No (conscious) hidden agenda. It's the only poem I've written that wasn't a jokey thing pissing about.  

Fair to say, after insisting on seeing it, my dad didn't like it... 



''foliage parting flagstones''  Excellent imagery..... and alliteration.


----------



## Demosthenes (Jan 10, 2009)

I think your stuff is excellent bluestreak.


----------



## dodgepot (Jan 10, 2009)

bluestreak said:


> I have a dream of earth
> The force of will that shoves weeds
> Through concrete.
> 
> ...



i like that very much indeed. both the sentiment and the execution.


----------



## DotCommunist (Jan 10, 2009)

Alex B said:


> M Banks, Herbert, Heinlein, Clarke, F Hamilton and some I don't know without google. Gibson. Reynolds.



You missed Joe Haldeman and such I can only assume you haven't read his very good and strongly anti-war Forever War trilogy. Man it is worth your time


----------



## DotCommunist (Jan 10, 2009)

bluestreak said:


> is pushing ice yours, dot?  i like that but my scifi begins and ends with general knowledge and iain m banks.



nah, pushing ice is a Reynolds novel- It refers to the mass of ice used as an ablative shield at the front of near _c_ craft. Cause at 90% of light speed micrometeores would fuck your crft up.


----------



## ebay sex moomin (Jan 10, 2009)

this is about disillusionment. it's called-


*Caravan Park*

So I left the caravan park
Run by gypsies
4 brothers
Who hate each other

Dogs chained up by my caravan, howling
Roosters chained up, clucking and fighting
Shit everywhere
Dog shit, chicken shit, horse shit
Horseshit

My neighbour
An alcoholic man in his early fifties
Divorcee, gay, in denial
Rows with the bald girl
From caravan 5
Who's been in the institution
Sectioned for 5 years

They row every nite and
Into the morning
Drunk on cheap cider
And her on the medication

Sometimes she shares my bed
For sleep
She can't sleep in her own bed
Because of the spiders
Crawling all over her
Mind-spiders
I think we understand each other

The alcoholic guy
Half his sentences
End with a threat

"I'm telling yer, Val"
(He calls me Val)
"Tek her home"
(He doesn't know
I have no home)
"But I'm tellin yer
I'm warnin yer, Val
Watch yer back
She'll hit yer
With anything she's got
No word of a lie
Hide yer knives
Oh yeah
She'll stab yer in the back
When yer not lookin
I'm not jokin"

& he says
"Tek her home, Val
But I'm tellin yer
If you hurt her
I'll fuckin kill yer"

& he says
"I've bent over backwards
To help that girl
But I'm not jokin, I tell yer
Enough's enough

But if anybody hurt her
No word of a lie
I'd fuckin kill them,
I'm not jokin"
& he drinks some more cider
& rolls a fag

& then he says to her
"Yer a nutter
Yer a fuckin nutter
Who're yer talkin to?
There's nobody there
Will yer just fuckin shut up?
I'm not jokin
I've fuckin had enough of this shit”

One nite
She smashes his head
With a glass ashtray,
Drawing blood,
Pisses on his sofa
Then phones the Social
Services to come
& take her away again
Me, I got no-one to phone

No gas
No hot water
No cooker
Broken windows
No toilet seat
Roof leaks when it rains
Mushrooms growing in the bathroom

The cockerels drive me crazy
I hear them crowing
All day from dawn
& they are saying
"Motherfucka
Unchain me"
Which is what the dogs are saying
Too

I don't know what I did
But everywhere I go
I become the bad guy
The first to leave
My face in disgrace
Last nite I dreamt of
A gang of gypsies
Beating on a group of people
With sticks

They hit Kate Moss
For taking cocaine
Knocked her to the ground
"Not on the face"
She cried
"I'm a model"
As they knock out a tooth
And I know I am next

The dogs tear each other apart, howling
2 bitches chained together
So they can't get more than
3ft apart
The Alsation bites
The boxer's head
I get no sleep

They get fed biskits
They are never walked
They are lying in their own shit
I stopped going to see them
Cos they jump up
And cover my clothes
With shit from their claws
They are 5ft from my
Bedroom window
I get no sleep

Dogs in cages, & the gyspy children
Beat on the bars with a baseball bat
To make them mad

Gypsies-
They breed the cocks
For cockfighting
They attach razors to their
Claws, and cheer
As they tear the shit
Out of each other
That's entertainment

Breeding machines
The Alsation pups
Are worth £500 each
American Reds the
Same, small birds in
Cages will fetch £700
It's all a case of
Finding
The right buyer

I know my landlord
Will try to cheat me
Out of my deposit
Landlords!
Grab what you can
When the deal ends

Dogs on chains
Chickens on chains
Horses
On chains
Birds in cages
Dogs in cages
All screaming

Humans in cages

I said "I can't sleep-
It's me
Or the rooster
And my gyspy landlord
Said "it's you"
And then tried to cheat me
On the amount of notice
I had to give

And then I knew
I was just another animal
Being farmed
For money


.


----------



## TheHoodedClaw (Jan 10, 2009)

Crystals Like Blood - Hugh MacDiarmid (Christopher Murray Grieve)

I remember how, long ago, I found
Crystals like blood in a broken stone

I picked up a chunk of broken bed-rock
And turned it this way and that,
It was heavier than one would have expected
From its size. One face was caked
With brown limestone. But the rest
Was a hard greenish-grey quartz-like stone
Faintly dappled with darker shadows,
And in this quartz ran veins and beads
Of bright magenta.

And I remember how later on I saw
How mercury is extracted from cinnabar
--The double ring of piledrivers
Like the multiple legs of a fantastically symmetrical spider
Rising and falling with monotonous precision,
Marching round in an endless circle
And pounding up and down with a tireless, thunderous force,
While, beyond, another conveyor drew the crumbled ore
From the bottom and raised it to an opening high
In the side of a gigantic grey-white kiln.

So I remember how mercury is got
When I contrast my living memory of you
And your dear body rotting here in the clay
--And feel once again released in me
The bright torrents of felicity, naturalness, and faith
My treadmill memory draws from you yet.


----------



## madzone (Jan 10, 2009)

.


----------



## lontok2005 (Jan 10, 2009)

Future Tense Affair

I saw someone today
a somebody-not-there
beside me on the slope
of Primrose Hill
where I sat beneath a windloved tree
bent in the history of its ardour
and London below me, spreading
into its own future
around Wren’s dome

I could not see the Thames
nor hear it flow
but knew, but know
as I will always know
that it flows there.

I saw him then, this
somebody not there, this
somebody whose hand
did not hold mine
which stroked the grass
and tapped the earth of Primrose Hill
for company instead

somebody not laughing at
the jokes I wasn’t making
somebody not saying, ‘Let’s
go home then,
you and I,
and by and by, let’s lie then
you and I
on other slopes.’

No, not today
and maybe not tomorrow
but still the Thames will flow
the city spread, the dome still show
and as I know these things, I know
that someday, sometime, yes
he’ll come
my rhyme expected, yes
my somebody-not-yet.


----------



## DotCommunist (Jan 10, 2009)

ebay sex moomin said:


> this is about disillusionment. it's called-
> 
> 
> *Caravan Park*
> ...




there are things I like about this pome, and things I do not like. I find the intentional phonetic or misspellings do not enhance the piece. I'll come back after digesting the piece overnight iyswim but my first reaction is 'there are two good pomes here, you need to untangle the pair'

just my opinion though ennit.


----------



## TheHoodedClaw (Jan 10, 2009)

Sorley MacLean _Hallaig_ - this version translated by Seamus Heaney

Time, the deer, is in Hallaig Wood

There's a board nailed across the window
I looked through to see the west
And my love is a birch forever
By Hallaig Stream, at her tryst

Between Inver and Milk Hollow,
somewhere around Baile-chuirn,
A flickering birch, a hazel,
A trim, straight sapling rowan.

In Screapadal, where my people
Hail from, the seed and breed
Of Hector Mor and Norman
By the banks of the stream are a wood.

To-night the pine-cocks crowing
On Cnoc an Ra, there above,
And the trees standing tall in moonlight -
They are not the wood I love.

I will wait for the birches to move,
The wood to come up past the cairn
Until it has veiled the mountain
Down from Beinn na Lice in shade.

If it doesn't, I'll go to Hallaig,
To the sabbath of the dead,
Down to where each departed
Generation has gathered.

Hallaig is where they survive,
All the MacLeans and MacLeads
Who were there in the time of Mac Gille Chaluim:
The dead have been seen alive,

The men at their length on the grass
At the gable of every house,
The girls a wood of birch trees
Standing tall, with their heads bowed.

Between The Leac and Fearns
The road is plush with moss
And the girls in a noiseless procession
Going to Clachan as always

And coming boack from Clachan
And Suisnish, their land of the living,
Still lightsome and unheartbroken,
Their stories only beginning.

From Fearns Burn to the raised beach
Showing clear in the shrouded hills
There are only girls congregating,
Endlessly walking along

Back through the gloaming to Hallaig
Through the vivid speechless air,
Pouring down the steep slopes,
Their laughter misting my ear

And their beauty a glaze on my heart.
Then as the kyles go dim
And the sun sets behind Dun Cana
Love's loaded gun will take aim.

It will bring down the lightheaded deer
As he sniffs the grass round the wallsteads
And his eye will freeze: while I live,
His blood won't be traced in the woods.


In Scots:

_Hallaig_

“The deer, time, liggs in Hallaig shaw.

The windae’s nailt an broddit up
whaur-throu I saw the airt o the Wast
an ma luve is at the burn o Hallaig
in her bunnet o birk, an she wis aye

atween Inver an Mulkie Linn
thare or thareaboots roun Baile-Chuirn wey,
cled in a birk, in a hazel,
in a young rowan straucht an sclender.

In Screapadal whaur ma ain fowk wis ,
whaur Norman an Big Hector bade,
thair dochters an thair sons is a wid
raxin up alang the burnside.

Prood the nicht the pine cocks
craws on the heicht o Cnoc an Ra
straucht thair spaulds in the muinlicht –
no thaim the wids o ma hert.

I will byde on the birken shaw
whit time it raxes til the Cairn
whit lenth the haill rig til its scadda
owre Ben na Lice dis lour

Gin it disna, I’m awa doun til Hallaig
til the sabbath o the deid
wi aa the fowk in thrangity
ilk generation that’s awa.

Thay’r aa aye in Hallaig
Macleans an MacLeods
aa thaim thare frae MacGille Chaluim’s day:
the deid haes been seen, leivin yit 

the menfowk lyin on the gress
ilk gavel-en o ilka hoose that’s been,
the lassies a wid o birk trees,
straucht thair spaulds, blate thair heids.

Atween the Leac an Fearns
a braird o moss saftens the hie road
an the lassies in seilent bauns thegither
gangs til Clachan as frae the first.

An comin back frae Clachan,
frae Suisnish an the land o the leivin –
ilkane young an licht o fuit
wi nae hertbrek in the story.

Burn o Fearns lenth o sea-tint cladach
Sae clair in the raivelment o the hills
the’r nocht but thon congregation o the lassies
aye haudin forrit at thair endless haik,

returnin til Hallaig come the eenin
in the dumb leivin gloamin
fuhlin the stey braes
thair lauchter in ma listenin lik a haar

thair fairheid watterin ma hert’s een
gin comes the mirk owre the kyles,
gin gangs the sun the back o Dun Cana
a buhlet frae luve’s gun will come threipin

an stote thon deer that gangs stoiterin
snowkin at the gressy larachs;
he will faa in the wid, his ee jeelin;
whyle I’m alive, ye winna finnd his bluid.


----------



## DotCommunist (Jan 10, 2009)

a piece I like from browning


T





> HE gray sea and the long black land;
> And the yellow half-moon large and low;
> And the startled little waves that leap
> In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
> ...




and the most obvious and over quoted piece from Yeats that I cannot help but love




> Turning and turning in the widening gyre
> The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
> Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
> Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
> ...


----------



## TheHoodedClaw (Jan 10, 2009)

DotCommunist said:


> and the most obvious and over quoted piece from Yeats that I cannot help but love



Oh absolutely:



> And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
> Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?



This bit:



> The best lack all conviction, while the worst
> Are full of passionate intensity.



is such a truism about debating stuff online, or indeed in real life.

I like this bit too:



> Turning and turning in the widening gyre
> The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
> Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;



And yes I'm aware that I've pretty much quoted the whole poem backwards.


----------



## DotCommunist (Jan 10, 2009)

isitme said:


> Love is like a tiger in the woods at night
> Invisible to sight, seen by starlight
> 100% organic, romantic, worth more than any thing on any planet
> Love causes commotion, even corrosion
> ...



reads more hip-hop than trad poem.

Not that I didn't enjoy it, just found myself going all hip-hop vocal when reciting it outloud


----------



## isitme (Jan 10, 2009)

DotCommunist said:


> reads more hip-hop than trad poem.
> 
> Not that I didn't enjoy it, just found myself going all hip-hop vocal when reciting it outloud



that's cos I live and breathe hiphop


----------



## DotCommunist (Jan 10, 2009)

Nother from the vault of old school, an excerise in similie inpspired by Mike Ondaaji's 'sweet like crow' (which he done for a younger family member)



> Your eyes look like orbital satellites
> 
> Seen through a telescope
> 
> ...





here is his cause I like it 




> Your voice sounds like a scorpion being pushed
> through a glass tube
> like someone has just trod on a peacock
> like wind howling in a coconut
> ...


----------



## isitme (Jan 11, 2009)

I <3 PORN

and how thenet is now
and how thenet is now
i got bored of wanking over lesbians and spitroasts
and then i got bored of it being exploitative
and i got bored of real people shagging on camera phones
so now i hate porn


----------



## pengaleng (Jan 11, 2009)

isitme said:


> I <3 PORN
> 
> and how thenet is now
> and how thenet is now
> ...



this is the best poem on the whole thread imo. pure class.


----------



## isitme (Jan 11, 2009)

tribal_princess said:


> this is the best poem on the whole thread imo. pure class.



you just saying that cos u want my cock


----------



## panpete (Jan 11, 2009)

There's this woman,
Who won't go home.
This is but,
A crappy pome.


----------



## panpete (Jan 11, 2009)

A round cube
And a circular square
seem almost as odd
as a straight pubic hair


----------



## isitme (Jan 11, 2009)

impludo said:


> There's this woman,
> Who won't go home.
> This is but,
> A crappy pome.



Like a leaf
in the autumn breeze
Like a flood 
In January

WE DON'T WANT YOUR FUCKIN LOVE


----------



## chainsaw cat (Jan 11, 2009)

Your hair is brown and curly

Your eyes show varied hues

You're such a pretty girly 

But you do confuse.


You put your arms around me

You like mine around you
But you say you love another...
Oh great, what should I do?


----------



## madzone (Jan 11, 2009)

chainsaw cat said:


> Your hair is brown and curly
> 
> Your eyes show varied hues
> 
> ...


 Fuck her and move on


----------



## ruffneck23 (Jan 11, 2009)

I Wrote this about 4 yrs ago , liked it at the time not so sure now.....



The Life of Heinz the baked bean



Its Dark in here.........
But I have nothing to fear ,
Cramped Too , Surrounded by the others ,
What will we do? , me and my brothers.

A Noise , Rumbling loud as a Cheer,
Disturbs my quiet sanctury here,
Then a Bright Shining light ,
Slightly more harsh than I would have liked.

Im Being lifted , Turned on my Head ,
This is a strange feeling being thrown from my bed,
Me and my brothers being urged out of the can
Falling downwards towards that huge boiling pan!!!

Its getting hotter , feels like im being cooked ,
My mates on the side, He's been overlooked.
Scooped up so high once again ,
and then slamed down onto that toasted Wholegrain


Its Dark in Here!!!!!!
This time  think I have everything to Fear
BUT I'l get my revenge.............
I'l make his Farts rock the fundations of stonehenge!!!!


----------



## pengaleng (Jan 11, 2009)

you aint coming anywhere near my gash
cus I dont wanna catch your sexual rash
you're tripping boy we are gonna clash
shouldn't have fucked around with trash


----------



## tufty79 (Jan 11, 2009)

*the girl*

is interested and aroused
and embracing, but yet
somewhat saddened 
by cybersex.

it's not so much that she's a prude.
in fact, she wholeheartedly approves
of the concept of sex on the net, and
the folk who enthusiastically get
their rocks so very extremely off
in that fashion.

it's a passion.

but


her frustration lies in getting involved,
and as a result, she has resolved
to contact tomorrow her local college
to see if they can expand her knowledge,
and whether they could help endorse
an Initial Text Processing course (level III)
in one-handed
touch 
typ
i
nnnnnnngggh



(c/o me, the pam ayres of sexytime on teh internets)


----------



## DotCommunist (Jan 13, 2009)

for you I would pour bleach on my tongue
for you I would deny my base urge to lyrical violence
for you I would censor myself, but I'd tell you so.

For you I'd speak the most unspeakable profanities and hide them from your eyes
for you I'd straight up lie and then hedge my bets 
Elaborate, dissemble.

For you I'd describe the way and why I want to lay you 
for you I'd make it good, for you I'd write a litany of lust and tie it to a rhetoric of love
For you I'd cast a my net and trawl for meaning.

For you I'd say 'fuck it, she's mine'
And lay violence to your detractors


----------



## isitme (Jan 13, 2009)

goodbye JC2
may you ever 
grow in our hearts
you were the peoples poster
although you lately lost the art

and it seemed to me 
that you posted on here
like a candle in the wind
always going for dinner
when the rains came in

and although we used to argue
maybe now we never will
your candles burned out long before
the bunfight ever did


----------



## tufty79 (Jan 13, 2009)

DotCommunist said:


> for you I would pour bleach on my tongue
> for you I would deny my base urge to lyrical violence
> for you I would censor myself, but I'd tell you so.
> 
> ...



i want somebody to write that for me


----------



## bluestreak (Jan 13, 2009)

ebay sex moomin said:


> this is about disillusionment. it's called-
> 
> 
> *Caravan Park*
> .


 

Love it.  Kind of makes me thing it should be performed in a Guthrie or Dylanesque way.


----------



## DotCommunist (Jan 13, 2009)

tufty79 said:


> i want somebody to write that for me



the rantings of a fool, while enticing, are simply the rantings of a fool


----------



## pengaleng (Jan 13, 2009)

my poem is like well blatantly the best one, it's fucking awesome.


----------



## ebay sex moomin (Jan 13, 2009)

bluestreak said:


> Love it.  Kind of makes me thing it should be performed in a Guthrie or Dylanesque way.


cheers bluestreak.

it's interesting for me that there's always a follow-up when I post this anywhere, even tho it's only 2 years old. The bald girl from caravan 5 is now a crack fiend, but at least she's grown her hair back. The dogs all got murdered by some gang and left on the moors (apparently). The landlord's son stole his prized Bently off him, and then fled to live in Australia to live with his mum. Before that, a gang kneecapped him. The alcoholic has managed to stop- he takes that pill that makes you ill if you drink at all.

and the park is up for sale. 

there were many positive things about living there that are not reflected in the pome. The landlord, despite being a robbing bastard, was charming and fascinating in other ways. The only out-and-out rogue was the landlord's son, and he isn't even mentioned. Threatening- _attempting_ even, to stab a pregnant woman? what a ****ing ****hole.


----------



## Sweaty Betty (Jan 13, 2009)

My daughter has just finished writing one for her homework and its about her flying in the air -one of the lines that made me smile and chuckle is

I cant see the flowers wilt, the land looks like a patchwork quilt....


----------



## Sweaty Betty (Jan 13, 2009)

Stick it up your bum you pointy headed tosser- you fart calin klein but really are a dosser----


----------



## ebay sex moomin (Jan 13, 2009)

DotCommunist said:


> for you...


quite violent for a lovepoem, but I like it... 



> I cant see the flowers wilt, the land looks like a patchwork quilt....


lovely


----------



## isitme (Jan 13, 2009)

ebay sex moomin said:


> cheers bluestreak.
> 
> it's interesting for me that there's always a follow-up when I post this anywhere, even tho it's only 2 years old. The bald girl from caravan 5 is now a crack fiend, but at least she's grown her hair back. The dogs all got murdered by some gang and left on the moors (apparently). The landlord's son stole his prized Bently off him, and then fled to live in Australia to live with his mum. Before that, a gang kneecapped him. The alcoholic has managed to stop- he takes that pill that makes you ill if you drink at all.
> 
> ...



it is a really good poem

very truthful like all your best stuff. even better than your insane stuff


----------



## Jon-of-arc (Jan 13, 2009)

Dot Communist
Got on the piss
Shot one of his kids
Knocked one off the wrist

(coz he masturbates about dead babies, see?)

what do I win?


----------



## tufty79 (Jan 13, 2009)

fogbat
wants a cat
but cannot has
oh noes!
such woes!


----------



## SpookyFrank (Jan 14, 2009)

You call to accuse me of stalking
Your voice rings louder than thunder
But when you have quite finished talking
Can I ask how you got this number?


----------



## DotCommunist (Jan 30, 2009)

*dug this out while doing a vanity read of my own portfolio*

This is about the Racecourse, just across from the White Elephant pub. N'pton Urbs may know it.



*Two Faced Greensite*


From north to south-east, the wind blows constant
over leafless branches and downtrodden grasses.
She keeps her own council at night, bathes herself
in shadow and lets the velvet black lie in the land's hollows.

New tarmac gleams, the tree lined and lamp lit path
a tunnel of safety. A DMZ in unofficial bad turf.
She wears different makeup at night
no fresh faced blue on green, no golden glowing charm.
Dusky with actinic highlights,
with an electric thrill of risk



The purple hordes mob and shout from south to north,
school to home. Raising a gulls flock
with mock-charges, luring them back with food.
There's hard heat and soft grass, roaming canine hazards.

This is her day-face, all open green and ball games.
Power kiters and schoolkids,
bundles of fur and claw and tooth chase brightly coloured balls
or fight for discarded branches.
Bright with noonday heat
with summer-sun contentment


----------



## Missez (Jan 31, 2009)

*Internet Spaces*

I just wrote this after reflecting on the treatment I received over a number of years on another forum by one particular poster. This is dedicated to her. May she rot in hell.

People bring themselves to what I write,
In a poem this is a good thing.
On an internet forum its shite.

Your head puts in place
Of my voice and my face
Your preconceptions and malevolent hate
 My real tone is lost and distorted
My meaning and intent aborted
All purpose of communication thwarted.

If a poem is a partial reflection
The spaces of meaning left to cause diffraction
and
ideas
dispersed
by
others
subjectification .

As if I’d placed a looking glass to see who you are
And neither of us liked the answer
So you pour your hate into the spaces I meant
to be filled with revelation, playfulness and laughter.


----------



## bluestreak (Jan 31, 2009)

So, how does someone like us get our poems published (or indeed rejected)?  What poetry mags or organisations do we send them to?


----------



## tufty79 (Jan 31, 2009)

http://www.therialto.co.uk/ might be a start. and http://www.litro.co.uk/ too.
for very startery starters 

as might http://www.lulu.com/uk/ for self publishing

oh, and if you *do* self publish, you can send it to the poetry library, who (i am told) will store it in their archives forevermore


----------



## DotCommunist (Jan 31, 2009)

bluestreak said:


> So, how does someone like us *get our poems published* (or indeed rejected)?  What poetry mags or organisations do we send them to?



given up caring really, but I to would like to know if any publications cared to give me money for my doggrel


----------



## Paulie Tandoori (Jan 31, 2009)

its clear.
i need beer.
near.
me.
its clear.


----------



## tufty79 (Jan 31, 2009)

megabus
are not so mega
national express
is less speedy than you'd think.
speedy noodle is kind of slow,
and the fabulous baker boy's cupcakes are a misnomer.

i'm tired of all the cold hard sell
and lies that ads and brand names tell 


(not so much of a poem as my fingers hitting keys )


----------



## Citizen66 (Feb 1, 2009)

The purest white of driven snow
was the wool of mary's lamb
she flogged it round the local clubs
at fifty pounds a gramme.


----------



## Diamond (Feb 1, 2009)

Ball bounces
back and back and back again
and a bead of sweat.
That's tennis.


----------



## ebay sex moomin (Feb 1, 2009)

*Bluebottles*

Plastic cider
In a bluebottle
Fly me to the moon-eyed calf

We are all in the gutter
But some of us are being sick
Into the gutter
Bluebottles

Made and brewed in Levenshulme
And in all the world’s dank places
Don’t socialise round war memorials
Watch out for tramp-fishing
And the kids who pull the legs off spiders

She’s got no teeth
And he’s got no face
And we’re all warmed up 
By the buzzing bluebottle
The neon nectar

Some ways are quicker
And most ways are sweeter
But no way is cheaper

And in the light
And thru the night
The skittish bluebottle
Shines irridescent
In the glow of the streetlamps 
And shopfronts


.​


----------



## SpookyFrank (Feb 1, 2009)

*Spontaneous doggerel ftw...*

I think I have something to tell you
It really can't wait but it must
Desire for one so beloved
Amounts to a breakdown of trust

The days we're apart are just limbo
And together a version of same
But a void without thought is ecstatic
Not a void only filled with your name

It's odd I have no visual memory
Of any of your sweet components
The only things left to sustain me
Are shadows of harlequin movements

Without you I can't make decisions
Though I see through the bars of my cage
That wit with incision
And lust with derision
The tender forbidden
Is no basis for a stable relationship in this day and age


----------



## SpookyFrank (Feb 2, 2009)

*Rock and Roll*

The sound produced by the impact of a size 11 army-issue boot on an early 80's linebacker amplifier with spring reverb unit
Is sampled and looped as percussion
The bassist, armed with a drumstick in his right hand and a tin of beans in his left, unleashes a motif of such ferocity
It gives the poor soundman concussion

A dozen assorted horn players improvising around a I-V-bVII progression
Awaken the drummer from slumber
After a yawn, a crack of the knuckles and four fat fingers of Jack Daniels
He produces a wall of white thunder

Through an assortment of pedals, processors and pre-amps fit to baffle Dave Gilmour
Comes an atonal howl of guitar
Only then does the singer; a six-foot, seven-stone androgyne with cheekbones sharp enough to shave with, pale green eyes big enough to drown a rat in and an idiosyncratic waver of the hips that could induce even the most cold-hearted observer to bite clean through his or her own molars; utter the sole lyric of this ditty, best rendered thus:
EEEEEEEeeaaaeeeaarrrAAAAAAAAAAAEEEEEERAAAAARGH!


----------



## Skin (Feb 2, 2009)

Heart and Mind (Edith Sitwell)

SAID the Lion to the Lioness-'When you are amber dust,-
No more a raging fire like the heat of the Sun
(No liking but all lust)-
Remember still the flowering of the amber blood and bone,
The rippling of bright muscles like a sea,
Remember the rose-prickles of bright paws
Though the fire of that sun the heart and the moon-cold bone are one.'

Said the Skeleton lying upon the sands of Time-
'The great gold planet that is the mourning heat of the Sun
Is greater than all gold, more powerful
Than the tawny body of a Lion that fire consumes
Like all that grows or leaps...so is the heart

More powerful than all dust. Once I was Hercules
Or Samson, strong as the pillars of the seas:
But the flames of the heart consumed me, and the mind
Is but a foolish wind.'

Said the Sun to the Moon-'When you are but a lonely white crone,
And I, a dead King in my golden armour somewhere in a dark wood,
Remember only this of our hopeless love
That never till Time is done
Will the fire of the heart and the fire of the mind be one.'


----------



## tufty79 (Feb 3, 2009)

she said, 'you've got gemini rising'.
i said, 'i've more than _that_ rising, love'.
we danced. we sang. we did nothing out of the ordinary.

she brings me flowers in the middle of winter.
she feeds me herbs and chocolate, all finger foods and fine dining.
a garter of leaves on her thigh, petals on her back. 
needle scratches,
accidentally deliberate.

adorned in ink, she stands before me.
flashing eyes, glowing skin;
beating a luminous tattoo through the dark

and piercing my heart.


----------



## DotCommunist (Feb 3, 2009)

tufty79 said:


> she said, 'you've got gemini rising'.
> 'i've more than _that_ rising, love', i replied.
> we danced. we sang. we did nothing out of the ordinary.
> 
> ...




I like this. Prosaic vulgar meets a lovely poetical stance. Win

specially the bolded passage- reminiscent of Leonard Cohen.


----------



## tufty79 (Feb 3, 2009)

thank you.  it just hatched on me out of nowhere onto here. and got a wee bit edited since 



DotCommunist said:


> I like this. Prosaic vulgar meets a lovely poetical stance. Win



vulgar + a lovely poetical stance = me.  have you *seen* me do me stuff? 



DotCommunist said:


> _reminiscent of Leonard Cohen_.



jebus. steady on.  you almost made me panic attack again with that one.

but wow. 

ta


----------



## marty21 (Feb 3, 2009)

Juice

the old man drew to a halt
wiped his brow
leant against a stone wall

shielded eyes from an
unforgiving sun
he had walked far
today

out of his pocket
he withdrew
an apple
and tore into
the flesh
enjoying the juice
seeping into
grey stubble

ahead of him was a village
he had been there
before
many years had passed
sadness and pain
forced him to leave

now was the time to
return

to face ghosts


----------



## DotCommunist (Feb 3, 2009)

Make cold your graves
as the bodies to fill them.

Make ash your corpses,
and hot you will burn them

Craft well the snowballs,
while life is in you.

Tamp the snow sounder though, when you build a man 
Craft well and with passion
For oneday too, you join the cold ash.


----------



## tufty79 (Feb 3, 2009)

Skin said:


> Heart and Mind (Edith Sitwell)
> 
> SAID the Lion to the Lioness-'When you are amber dust,-
> No more a raging fire like the heat of the Sun
> ...


----------



## tufty79 (Feb 3, 2009)

*you watched jeremy kyle; i watched oprah instead.*

when love walked in, 
it was all alone.

it brought nothing else.
no requests.
no demands.
no hostility.
no anger.

it just *was*.

leave your talons at the door.
forget all your cares, your woes,
your nestle-sugar-instead-of-green-and-blacks darkest emotions,
your crocodile tears, your onion layers, your plastic sunflowers . the lifestyle you're "accustomed to", and your sherry complicity.

this is for you.

and you'll never read it.


as oprah herself said,
"love ain't supposed to feel bad"


----------



## Sweaty Betty (Feb 3, 2009)

tufty79 said:


> when love walked in,
> it was all alone.
> 
> it brought nothing else.
> ...



BRAVO LOVE!!!

that was wicked

im gonna have a go now


----------



## Sweaty Betty (Feb 3, 2009)

Ive got the ending but not the rest 

Me thinks i need some CBT quick



"because when your mother doesnt love you--who the hell does..."


----------



## tufty79 (Feb 3, 2009)

Sweaty Betty said:


> when love walked in,
> it was all alone.
> 
> it brought nothing else.
> ...



hehe i love that my drafts are getting saved on here 



Sweaty Betty said:


> BRAVO LOVE!!!
> 
> that was wicked
> 
> im gonna have a go now



cheers 

tis well cathartic. esp when it just *flows*...
although that might just be the spliff 

POST IT! xxx


----------



## Sweaty Betty (Feb 3, 2009)

You never seemed to ask if i wanted that outfit from marks, you were too busy sucking on lemons and thinking of the past......


i may have to jigsaw this alltogether


----------



## tufty79 (Feb 3, 2009)

Sweaty Betty said:


> Ive got the ending but not the rest



ahhh it's just stuff in my head that's relevant to me, her and possibly not many other people.

she holds the Jeremy Kyle show in high regard.
She quotes guests on there (who're well broken at the time they're on there, and shouldn't be exploited/.  and basically being treated as a modern freakshow/bedlam/emotionaltorturepornvictims.   if you know what i mean), as being Models of Society
You Should Love Your Family No Matter What appears to be the main message she's gleaned from the whole thing.  and boy, did she love repeating that to me when we were still in contact.

*facepalm*

on the other hand, i prickle whenever i watch it.

the oprah quote's just one that i like.  and pretty true 


/therapy.


----------



## Sweaty Betty (Feb 3, 2009)

tufty79 said:


> ahhh it's just stuff in my head that's relevant to me, her and possibly not many other people.
> 
> she holds the Jeremy Kyle show in high regard.
> She quotes guests on there (who're well broken at the time they're on there, and shouldn't be exploited/.  and basically being treated as a modern freakshow/bedlam/emotionaltorturepornvictims.   if you know what i mean), as being Models of Society
> ...




my mum went to Ala-non when dad finally made it to AA--she stayed for 3 sessions and said she only went to hear the dramatic stories , much better than dallas as she put it

her Ideal job is receptionist at A&E


----------



## DotCommunist (Feb 3, 2009)

Sweaty Betty said:


> You never seemed to ask if i wanted that outfit from marks, you were too busy sucking on lemons and thinking of the past......
> 
> 
> i may have to jigsaw this alltogether



catharsis is where bitter lemon reaches lyrics and makes something, well, poetic.

Go for it


----------



## DotCommunist (Feb 3, 2009)

Sweaty Betty said:


> You never seemed to ask if i wanted that outfit from marks, you were too busy sucking on lemons and thinking of the past......
> 
> 
> i may have to jigsaw this alltogether





tufty79 said:


> ahhh it's just stuff in my head that's relevant to me, her and possibly not many other people.
> 
> she holds the Jeremy Kyle show in high regard.
> She quotes guests on there (who're well broken at the time they're on there, and shouldn't be exploited/.  and basically being treated as a modern freakshow/bedlam/emotionaltorturepornvictims.   if you know what i mean), as being Models of Society
> ...



spam poetry

'I didn’t want to hurt your feelings'

March 7, 2007 by kristin.

cheryl didn’t want you to know
your breath needs help
your weight is a problem
you aren’t what employers are looking for
nobody wants to hurt your feelings
you should ask yourself
why does anyone care about you?
Speaking of gouging my eyes out….
a personal letter from santa
writ large
let me tell your wife
you hate to be wrong.


----------



## tufty79 (Feb 3, 2009)

Sweaty Betty said:


> my mum went to Ala-non when dad finally made it to AA--she stayed for 3 sessions and said she only went to hear the dramatic stories



is your mum a confessional clone of mine?  

*takes it to pm.  another day*

nice one, dottie 

further edit button abuse:
oh christ, it's *so* all about me at the minute 

i misread your earlier post as not having got anything but the ending of *mah* pome. and wondered why you'd switched from 'bravo' to 'eh?'

got ya now.

and massively pointing and laughing at my own absolute ridiculousness, misunderstandings and all that.

you got lemons.
make lemonade lady.

i'll drink to that.


----------



## Sweaty Betty (Feb 3, 2009)

tufty79 said:


> is your mum a confessional clone of mine?
> 
> *takes it to pm.  another day*
> 
> nice one, dottie



probs by the sound of it


----------



## SpookyFrank (Feb 3, 2009)

In time it seems we will forget
Just why it hasn't happened yet
As I leapt from the cliff you laughed
Your sister took the photograph
A lesson's learned each time we meet
Swimming in jeans is quite a feat


----------



## tufty79 (Feb 3, 2009)

*3.75 x 2 /*

bridezilla * a walkman

equals

i'm too tired to do the maths.
your mouth moves and sound comes out
but your mumble and my ears are not compatible.

"i'm sorry. i can't hear you."

a welcome change from "i can't speak".

you're a trusty steed
a noble squire
a fluffy bunny rabbit slayer, to my brain's persistence and dismay.

your cheque will never expire.
my heart will never stop melting.
we will destroy each other with structural damage
within these four walls
if we continue to exist.

i will make a nest
at the top of a tower block.
surround myself with shiny things,
be a word magpie.
soar and sing.

i don't care about the mean eyed boys on corners with knives, jangling with the traces of ten minutes ago's powder.
i don't care about the girls with big boots and attitood who think that they own my power.

i don't care about those who have no respeck for me.
i don't care about those who won't take time to reflect on me   [PAUSE]   shining and good intentions.

it's tiring being a bradford bird, a northern soul down south.
plastic flowers are the common denominator.

i shall plant veg in the churchyards
grow sunflowers on the roundabouts
run away when i have to
and stay when i want to.

"london doesn't love, it just sucks
the life out of me".

i find that the scotch
the welsh
the irish
are closer relatives than those i'm tied to with blood.

fiery hair, fiery hearts, fiery full stop.

i'm a cock robin, a sparrow
my north wind doth blow. frequently.
and what will i do *then*?
i'm not a poor thing.
i won't hide my head ,
instead 
i will flit around, finding myself 

i find solace in the warmth of a sleeping boy
who is older than time, and younger than a kitten.

i find comfort in my phone book.
i don't have to call, i just know that you're there.

i find my furniture in the street.
my eye rests on a glass cabinet, which was destined for me.
much like the hat and coat stand, smothered with snow this afternoon two doors down.

i find release in rambling.

i find love all around me.
i'm the luckiest girl in the world.


----------



## xenon (Feb 3, 2009)

accessory fruit
composed of five or more carpels
in which the exocarp
forms an inconspicuous layer.
The mesocarp is usually fleshy,
and the endocarp forms a leathery case around the seed.


----------



## pengaleng (Feb 3, 2009)

oooh ooh I wrote one about me mate!!

me bezzer, he's a bloke called sam
fights like souljah, down in vietnam
he's constantly in a M25 traffic jam
speed limits? he dont give a damn
rumour is, he felt up skanky pam
he caught some warts off her clam

my poems are truly the best on this thread like.


----------



## tufty79 (Feb 3, 2009)

absofuckinglutely 

you're the pomehalfmanhalfbiscuit of urban


----------



## tufty79 (Feb 9, 2009)

there is a very good joint effort here:

http://www.urban75.net/vbulletin/showthread.php?t=279151&page=4


----------



## ebay sex moomin (Feb 10, 2009)

*Post a fucking pome then*

e2a- on re-reading this, there's bits i like about this pome, and bits i don't. i might edit it down and repost...


----------



## Balbi (Feb 21, 2009)

If I gave myself one point for each little thing,
I did right every day of my life,
and took away one for all that I did wrong,
how far off from zero am I?

One up due to being aspiring,
but take many for taking my time,
give a couple for pleases and thank yous,
but take loads for my many small crimes.

I could add many more for the things I adore,
but subtract them for all that I hate,
and take away some for my lacking at sums,
time too, why I'm so often late.

It is clear now you know, that this all has to go,
and the tallying of life must cease,
for at the end of it all, the chalk marks on the wall
will do nowt but prevent me from peace.


----------



## Vintage Paw (Feb 21, 2009)

DotCommunist said:


> oh frabjuose joy, an uber geek one I done ages ago. The poison chalice of being righ about sci fi on the internet is the reward for the poster who identifies every author.
> 
> 
> 
> ...



This is ace 

I recognise Peter F Hamilton (getting quite a good showing, I think), Richard Morgan, Iain M Banks, Robert Heinlein, Arthur C Clark, Alaister Reynolds, Joe Halderman, William Gibson, Frank Herbert. Am I missing anyone?


----------



## ebay sex moomin (May 4, 2009)

SpookyFrank said:


> In time it seems we will forget...


I like that. I'm not even sure why I like it; it's partly that I don't understand it, but I get a sense of something. Like an old polaroid of a long-gone lover...

you may like this- you're at least as apocalyptic as I am


*Revelations Redux*

Is all, is all, is lost
Chained to a ghost, the end-times delivered in bite-size pieces
Blank verse, chained to a hearse;
The sun cries or maybe just doesn’t bother

No other; the
Street-homeless freeze and we sneeze
Swine-flu brain– the street-homeless die and we sneeze and complain
No gain– some bankers make a mint on
Flushing the economy down the drain
While we moan about blame

Everywhere there is death
We take another breath and count the days
And the ten thousand ways that it ends
Civilisation stuck with a bad case of the bends
Still, you can add me on facebook

The earth shook – a black president
Resident in the white house, 
A change we don’t believe in
Same old puppetry, a bent aristocracy
Forgive me if I don’t cheer the new boss

Near future, all die
Pie in the sky?
I don’t believe in rhymes or
Poetry
There’s no longer a thing to believe in




happy Bank Holiday everybody!
	

	
	
		
		

		
			






.


----------



## SpookyFrank (May 13, 2009)

*Orang-utan*

What you can't get for free ain't worth nothing,
What ain't already dead ain't worth hunting.
Mugshots have crept right into your worldview,
If you'd do what you're told I would be there for you.

I can't take this shit another minute,
DFS is burning with me in it.
I know that those are bite marks on my inner thigh,
Call it ringworm if you need an alibi.

So when it all goes wrong go find your brother,
Needle in one hand, rifle in the other.
Amputation's beyond the reach of first aid,
Too late now I'll see you on the barricade.

Seems to me that I am an orang-utan,
You are just a monkey with a suntan.


----------



## SpookyFrank (May 13, 2009)

ebay sex moomin said:


> I like that. I'm not even sure why I like it; it's partly that I don't understand it, but I get a sense of something. Like an old polaroid of a long-gone lover...



Just spotted this comment, many thanks 

And yes, it is pretty much a polaroid of a long-gone lover.


----------



## Balbi (Jul 21, 2009)

Another day on the JSA
and i'm wasting my life away
another day on the JSA, and i'm fine
trying to occupy my mind
god knows i've tried, and i'm qualified
to find some decent work for pay
god knows i've tried, broken down and cried
but there just seems to be no way

What doesn't fulfil you makes you weak,
fifty pounds ninety five a week,
it's what you're given, it's what you get
to spend on beer and cigarettes. 

Another day on the JSA,
and i'm walking the streets just to get away
Another day on the JSA,
trying to waste the time away
incentives to be all you can be
but they come with no guarantee
incentives to be all you can be
on the scrapheap at twenty three,
twenty four, twenty five, twenty six....

What doesn't fulfil you makes you weak
fifty pounds ninety five a week,
looking and searching, wish I was working
i'm down and out but i'm not beat.


----------



## SpookyFrank (Jul 21, 2009)

Inspired by Balbi's fine effort:

Control each facet of my life completely
Steal my friends, my lovers, smile sweetly
As you use that paperwork to murder me discreetly
There you go again, thinking you can beat me


----------



## Barking_Mad (Jul 21, 2009)

Floodlit in the orange glow
Of neon streetlights
And exploding in the burnt out embers
Of wished upon stars
Dreams that didn’t make it
Beyond a passing thought
Are scattered across the skyline
And lost forever
In the background noise
Of broken lives 
That stream between the gaps
Where the flickering light
Bleeds into the night
And passes over this idle earth


----------



## elevendayempire (Mar 24, 2010)

The word "bed"
Has a little bed-head
Like an actual bed.

If you want a bigger bed
With a better bed-head
You need bread.


----------



## Bakunin (Mar 24, 2010)

Vintage Paw said:


> This is ace
> 
> I recognise Peter F Hamilton (getting quite a good showing, I think), Richard Morgan, Iain M Banks, Robert Heinlein, Arthur C Clark, Alaister Reynolds, Joe Halderman, William Gibson, Frank Herbert. Am I missing anyone?



Yes.

The phrase 'Oh frabjous joy' comes from the tortuous poetry read to Arthur Dent and Ford Prefect by Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz in 'The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy' by Douglas Adams.

For added Geekpoints I can also tell you which guitars Jimmy Page used on 'Stairway To Heaven', both the album and live versions.


----------



## DotCommunist (Apr 6, 2010)

emo as fuck, but was moved to pen this for someone after months of stagnant no-pome inspiration




Dress, for me in shaded black
wear the hues of night.
Swirl for me, in a pleated skirt
so my mouth dries.

Avoid the sun, stay pale, gorgeous.
Luminescence comes not from the sun,
it shines as snowdrop first flowers.
Stay raven, stay snow

In silence, in shadow, be my elegance 
to watch, as liquescent gaze 
glances back.
To make sure I see

How she moves


----------



## SpookyFrank (Aug 31, 2010)

Right, this is dreck and quite obviously a song lyric rather than a poem but having written it in an especially black mood the other night I thought I'd chuck it up here for the sake of catharsis:

_Angel
I need to sleep now
Watch as I hit the ground
And leave me

Sorry
I couldn't run faster
But you can outlast them
Without me

A road is just a river you know
Will take you where it wants you to go
And fifty thousand soldiers in tow
Can't turn the tide to bring me back home

Breathe now
When words have no meaning
Just scream at the ceiling 
And listen

Sunshine
Crackling snowflakes
The beautiful sounds you make
Can save you

And nothing stands before you that will
Last longer than the scent of a kill
The tigers creeping over the hill
Won't find you while I'm watching you still_


----------



## Steel Icarus (Aug 31, 2010)

*The good and the wise lead quiet lives*

The whole world’s a
noisy place these days.

A phone bleeps
in an infested shopping arcade
and everyone checks
irrespective of whether
they heard their own individual
tone.

Music plays for three quarters of a minute
from the PA system
before another advert for a product
you don’t want to buy
but can’t do without.

Every shop has its own version
of music or
something almost like it.

Conversation is impossible
and becomes loud
ugly and
cyclical.

At these moments
all I want
is an old man’s pub
before they banned smoking
and watch the sunlight hold my breath
in its warm hands.

Maybe a jukebox
turned low.

The clink of glasses
as afternoon ambles towards evening.

And the hardest thing to decide
is whether this pint
should be followed by another
or a quiet walk
towards home

or something
almost like it.


----------



## DotCommunist (Sep 1, 2010)

^^^good line breaks, content somehow made more more nostalgic than someone my age has any right to be- and isn't that the key? 'I'll evoke in you the feelings you never felt'. 

yep, that is a nice piece- I've something I wrote yesterday but I may or may not post it due it needing work and being a bit sonorous.


----------



## DotCommunist (Sep 6, 2010)

emo alert:



> In sooth I found a favoured thing, a line once forgot-
> For you.
> 
> For you, no for me-words evoke passion
> ...


----------



## Johnny Canuck3 (Sep 6, 2010)

DotCommunist said:


> emo alert:


 
'Cause when love is gone, there's always justice.
And when justice is gone, there's always force.
And when force is gone, there's always Mom. Hi Mom!

So hold me, Mom, in your long arms. So hold me,
Mom, in your long arms.
In your automatic arms. Your electronic arms.
In your arms.
So hold me, Mom, in your long arms.
Your petrochemical arms. Your military arms.
In your electronic arms.


----------



## Santino (Sep 6, 2010)

DotCommunist said:


> emo alert:


 
How are you pronouncing 'forte'?


----------



## Barking_Mad (Sep 6, 2010)

Floodlit in the orange glow
Of neon streetlights
And exploding in the burnt out embers
Of wished upon stars
Dreams that didn’t make it
Beyond a passing thought
Are scattered across the skyline
And lost forever
In the background noise
Of broken lives
That stream between the gaps
Where the flickering light
Bleeds into the night
And passes over this idle earth


----------



## i-am-your-idea (Sep 8, 2010)

Ted Hughes - Tractor

The tractor stands frozen - an agony
To think of. All night
Snow packed its open entrails. Now a head-pincering gale,
A spill of molten ice, smoking snow,
Pours into its steel.
At white heat of numbness it stands
In the aimed hosing of ground-level fieriness. 

It defied flesh and won't start.
Hands are like wounds already
Inside armour gloves, and feet are unbelievable
As if the toe-nails were all just torn off.
I stare at it in hatred. Beyond it
The copse hisses - capitulates miserably
In the fleeing, failing light. Starlings,
A dirtier sleetier snow, blow smokily, unendingly, over
Towards plantations Eastward.
All the time the tractor is sinking
Through the degrees, deepening
Into its hell of ice. 

The starting lever
Cracks its action, like a snapping knuckle.
The battery is alive - but like a lamb
Trying to nudge its solid-frozen mother -
While the seat claims my buttock-bones, bites
With the space-cold of earth, which it has joined
In one solid lump. 

I squirt commercial sure-fire
Down the black throat - it just coughs.
It ridicules me - a trap of iron stupidity
I've stepped into. I drive the battery
As if I were hammering and hammering
The frozen arrangement to pieces with a hammer
And it jabbers laughing pain-crying mockingly
Into happy life. 

And stands
Shuddering itself full of heat, seeming to enlarge slowly
Like a demon demonstrating
A more-than-usually-complete materialization -
Suddenly it jerks from its solidarity
With the concrete, and lurches towards a stanchion
Bursting with superhuman well-being and abandon
Shouting Where Where? 

Worse iron is waiting. Power-lift kneels
Levers awake imprisoned deadweight,
Shackle-pins bedded in cast-iron cow-shit.
The blind and vibrating condemned obedience
Of iron to the cruelty of iron,
Wheels screeched out of their night-locks - 

Fingers
Among the tormented
Tonnage and burning of iron 

Eyes
Weeping in the wind of chloroform 

And the tractor, streaming with sweat,
Raging and trembling and rejoicing.


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## ebay sex moomin (Sep 8, 2010)

Reality T.V, 2-D me

Imbecile
that's me
half-wit
I aspire to be
worthless advice
given free
reality T.V.
2-D me

a hairline fracture
a broken shirt
down the supermarket aisle
with a ring of dirt
around the bath
2 bottles free
reality T.V.
2-D me

locked in a prison
of revamped homes
property ladders
and mobile phones
find yr ideal haircut
by the sea
reality T.V.
2-D me

.


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## bhamgeezer (Sep 8, 2010)

She glances down when his name is spoken,
and that soft look upon her face,
the rapture in her eyes,
is not for me. 
But in that moment I love him too
his brutish strength, his mindless courage,
and I am sickened


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## Steel Icarus (Dec 8, 2010)

*Unlucky*

The soft, disappointed yellow
of old streetlamps
twinkles from every imperfection
on this frozen road.
Stars on the ground.
All those pennies
I never picked up.


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## Kidblast (Dec 8, 2010)

The Walking Dead is crap.

So, Darabont, you sacked all the writers,
slovenly blighter's!
Now things are looking much brighter.
and you just might'a
have a product that's not shite'a.


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## Lock&Light (Dec 8, 2010)

_The expression "Wee Free" refers to the Free Church of Scotland, a particularly virulent form of Calvinism._ 

*The Ballad of Mick McGarr* 

Wee Mick McGarr, from Ireland far,
a fiddler all his life, 
though Dublin bred to Scotland fled,
leaving his child and wife.
With his scraggy dog he crossed the bog,
a bottle against each hip,
but by Cushendal he’d drunk it all
and missed the Glasgow ship.

Mick sat on the pier, clutched his can of beer,
his fiddle and dog beside,
through the afternoon he gazed with gloom
at the flow and the fleeing tide.
His head bent low, the whisky glow
had faded from his soul
when a puffer boat, just half afloat
steamed in with a hold of coal.

John Neil MacLean was the proud captain
of the “Lady Skerryvore”;
it was his boast he could drink the most
and then still drink some more.
But as a staunch Wee Free, from the isle, Tiree,
his salvation he had found,
and the captain’s ship on every trip
very seldom ran aground.

With Mick McGarr he found a bar
and together they drank well;
John Neil MacLean, in his usual vein
blasted brimstone fire and hell.
Though he spoke of the pit as one who’d bit 
from the Apple of the Tree,
he knew for sure that his soul was pure;
all his life he’d been Wee Free.

With whisky blood Mick grew absurd,
he rose and slowly said,
“By me dog’s grey hair I have no fear
of the Deil be I live or dead.
By me dog’s grey mane, I’d say again
were Satan standing here,
by me dog’s grey knees, his fleece and fleas,
of Hell I have no fear!”

John Neil MacLean spoke not again,
Mick also now was still;
a dozen stares said silent prayers
and the barman’s eyes looked ill.
The dog of grey, without a say
on the question of its fur,
below the rail it dropped its tail
and, bewildered, tried to purr.

Yet, in a time the flow of wine
restored the company’s nerve,
and very soon, with a fiddle tune
Mick made them dance and swerve.
With the break of dawn as the barman yawned
and said, “God bless my soul!”
they had just enough loot for a wee carry-oot
to drink on the puffer of coal.

Links clinking on chains roused the rumpled remains
of the Captain and Mick McGarr;
the engine growled, the boatswain scowled
and they sailed by the mid-day star.
As they steamed from the bay Mick was carried away,
he stared at the sea in awe;
but recalling Mick’s boast, MacLean stared at the coast
and a hardness crept into his jaw.

The whispering breeze stirred the crew’s unease
on the “Lady Skerryvore”.
They feared that Mick by some evil trick
was Jonah come once more.
When the breeze rose and storm clouds closed
one of the men, Peg Leg,
said, “Give him a log for himself and his dog
and a floating whisky keg”

Thrown over the side in the heaving tide
Mick grabbed at the keg and log.
As the storm raged round and MacLean ran aground
Mick floated with fiddle and dog;
when the wind died away there lay Scarnish Bay
for he’d drifted right up to Tiree.
(Though, when later ashore, he claimed that for sure
he’d swum over the Irish Sea)

Mick drank the dreg of the whisky keg
and wondered where there was more;
it was sad that she’d sank as there’d been a full tank
on the “Lady Skerryvore”.
Having found Scarnish Bar there wee Mick McGarr
drank whisky, beer and sherry
his fiddle he played and all night he stayed,
keeping the locals merry.

In Scarnish Bar stood Mick McGarr
with his whisky in his hand.
While Mick was drunk t’was his dog that stunk,
on its feet could hardly stand.
The night passed fine till closing time
for the fiddler’s tunes were gay,
but when the bar shut there was no hut 
for Mick to sleep till day.

As the night grew old Mick grew more cold,
He drank from his whisky jar;
And across the dunes played sadder tunes
From the fiddle of Mick McGarr.
As he slowly walked to his dog he talked
Of his home and his child and wife,
And his songs, once gay, now seemed to say,
“Oh for the Dublin life”.


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


Far beneath Tiree the primeval sea
has burrowed an endless cave;
there toil the trolls in honeycomb holes
each one the Devil’s slave.
Guarding the tombs, the crypts and rooms
of the corridors leading to Hades,
their favourite treat, boiled babies feet,
gnawed crouching in spidery shades.

Below the soil the dark trolls toiled
at the tasks of their king, the Deil,
and through the ground they heard the sound
of the fiddler’s mournful reel.
The goblins and trolls climbed from their holes,
they seized Mick and his dog;
they dragged them down below the ground
to face their leader, Trog.

Trog was a gnome as black as doom,
his eyes shone bright as fire;
second in command at the Deil’s right hand
never did his malice tire.
His twisted mouth was quite enough
to send a shiver up Mick’s spine;
for Trog was evil, but for the Devil,
the foulest in the mine.

But as Mick stood, and before Trog could
condemn him to the Hell,
a rush of flame from the cavern came
and the trolls on their faces fell.
The Devil appeared to see who dared
to enter his domain;
“Why have you come into this tomb
before you have been slain?”

As Mick grew faint his dog’s restraint
was broken by this final fear;
it growled and barked till the Deil’s fire sparked
to clear it’s back of hair.
With a whimpering yelp and a scalded scalp
it fled to the tunnel’s end
and Mick alone, in the Devil’s tomb
had lost his only friend.

After a pause the Devil’s claws
clutched at the fiddle’s strings
“Who’s is this?” Then Trog said, “His”.
“How well can you play this thing?”
So the Irishman a tune began,
a song from Galway bay;
and the Devil’s smile grew all the while
that Mick his fiddle played.

The music’s flow, both soft and slow
made Satan bow his head,
and when it stopped the Devil hopped
with joy among the dead.
“This must not end, you’ll be my friend,
to play for me each day.
I’ll give you food and whisky good
if you will with me stay.”

And so Mick stayed and forever played
his reels and fiddle tunes;
and more whisky far than in Scarnish Bar
he drinks beneath the dunes.
His dog’s still there, without its hair
sniffling near the bar;
and in its dreams it sometimes seems
it’s there with Mick McGarr.

             * * * * * * * * * *


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