Poetry Forum

Newly thawed water drips down, slips mystically--defying physics-- at an angle managing to get between my neck and shirt. With widened straddles I skirt the emerald pool: out of reverence: of fear of freezing: of loneliness and a second class rescue system. Albino eyeless things flit round underneat...

And you sound like a whiny bitch.


Doesn't feel so good does it?

...hmmm...

Love fest it ain't. Funny that you should mention it though, since you seem to only approve of fuzzy emotional shit...

duplicity...I like it not a bit.

The Moose.

The Moose says: "bump"

groovy...I guess...

A smorgysbord of Japanese restraint. Beautiful.

One niggle as camus would say: I think the poem needs a final haiku at the end to tie things up more properly. Let the poor bastard get to Nirvana...kind of a downer otherwise.

The Moose

Cliches and subtlety run hand and hand in the company of quality work, so it is here.

I feel violated. Thanks for all the lingering images in my head. I'm sure to sleep just perfectly tonight.

Yech.

Huh.

Never read that myself. No disrespect meant to Nicola, of course.

The 300+ club is gonna have a field day.



Seems oddly a propo to be having this discussion under a poem about flippant critics. I'm amused.

The Moose.

The word for today is ameliorating.

Ameliorating is what tg appears to have done in the past few months.

Impressive, truly.

Kinda like the constitution...the preamble was the best part.

And it wasn't about you at all.

Sacrilege turned to dust today, on the coffee table, at the bottom of the magazine pile. Obscurity rolled over in bed and hit the snooze button in response—all for nine more minutes of under achieving bliss. Up from the urine puddles on the carpet and out of the blackish smears of dead fingerprints ...

Ooooh. Poachers make my blood boil. You've definitely touched a nerve.

The night dances in and out of hiding, flirting with its winking green eyed reflections—darting behind me with the breeze, to raise my hackles. A March moon casts shadows to which a humbler October is usually uniquely privy—bright blue light where blackness normally festers. My favorite trees have g...

...I've been away far too long...

Somewhere, deep in the woods, is a coked out elf holding a lighter...

You rock.

Perhaps you've not heard the masterpiece that is "Alice's Restaurant Massacree." Famous bit of folk-satire...done in 1968. you really should hear it, but make sure you have a free 20 minutes or so when you do. It's quite long.

The Moose

I wouldn't mind being swallowed up by the river. I've drowned a few times...it's rather warm and peaceful. Its the reviving that hurts.

We all wish for a young, swift death--but usually not until we are quite old.

Here's to Barbarossa!

Thanks both. On the subject of title: I wanted it weaker than the poem, but I am equally dissatisfied with it.

Ven--we could all do with a bit more thunder...

Never butt out.

And I went up there, I said, "Shrink, I want to kill. I mean, I wanna, I wanna kill. Kill. I wanna, I wanna see, I wanna see blood and gore and guts and veins in my teeth. Eat dead burnt bodies. I mean kill, Kill, KILL, KILL." And I started jumpin up and down yelling, "KILL, KILL,&quo...

I read this and this is what comes immediately to mind: Mirror in the bathroom Please talk free The door is locked Just you and me. Can I take you to a restaurant That's got glass tables You can watch yourself While you are eating. Mirror in the bathroom I just can't stop it? Every Saturday you see ...

I told the river bottom yesterday that her master could not have me. I told the rocks the same as I scraped my frozen body up onto a scruffy crag of granite, just before jumping off into the half-rapids again. All for laughs. She’s tried to take me more times than I now remember, I only know she see...

Crackle crackle, hush— the brambles cling to our legs like hungry kittens, just long enough to puncture. Rumble down, twigs snap and flannel shirts are rent away by moonlight. Faster now, the rush of the rapids—much nearer. Touch down, granite shards, gash at bare legs, blood turns pitch— almost hen...

pb, I never once did. I think the grand majority of us write to get shit off our chests more than to say: "Look what I can do with big words." As for the publishing...there may be nothing more detrimental to a poet than to be paid for his creations, or worse yet, to be paid to create. Many...

If you’d slice and dice me with your pretty words— could you sharpen the blade just a bit? Right now, you’re not even good for a close shave. You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! Let's to music! The only thing duller is your wit. Look at the willow tree, the one that swayed this here and yonder every ti...