just try, for your own sake.
is this, deep down, a class issue?
Moderator: xome
Once upon a time, humans got intelligent and tried to destroy the world, but My Father stopped them. The end.
not sure if a minor poet or not (probably is), though i like what i've read from his latest collection44. Bath, Kelmscott, the Cotswolds
Mute. Silent. Speechless or stopped
of speech. Trembling into
the tube, into the fractious turbid
wave. Compare at once
the varied siren patterns,
truck engine heaving and catching,
and sparseness of birds’ evensong.
Night is drawing mute, nigh on
suffusing darkness. Wintering outside,
the can’s paint separates, pigment
sludge from wan skim-milk medium.
The mountains are moving, though not
by faith. Like semen the medium,
drooled over her knuckles and down
my thigh, drying on the boards
to pale gray streaks.
the genius of the place
lays itself out in framed
ponds spreads across acres
of lilies green pointed
with blossoms
yew passages from room
to room tousled
and dry beds
to sinks of color
and scent cubes
of standing heat
That duty remain the mystery
underneath, soil thrusting up
the yellow-stone cottages
and occasional church spires
folded into the hedge-crossed
hill; beneath the Georgian
streets, matrons slaves
and centurions spill out
their offerings to the polynymic
gods, regardless of etymology
or lingual decorum. Too much
time here, depressing and overheating
the clutch through the village
“high” street. I too would be
a hedonist, snatch the day
like a greedy toddler,
if not for the mute reproach
of those patient flowers
and stricken, emblematic
birds, repeated up and down
the walls to a dizzy intricate
fortissimo. The mulberries, fallen,
have bloodied the garden path;
take care not to tread them
into the house, stain the floors
and advertise our common fallenness.
This land stubbornly pays tribute
to Hope and Glory, endless procession
of Dutch and High German trainers
dusted with the dust of its lanes
and parterres. The walls, though! the walls
so hung with the elaborate
dervish-work of Isfahan, flowers
and leaves of Baghdad and Kirkuk.
Beneath the Parade Ground march
a regiment of cats and dogs, beloved, mourned.
Go for it. Tell me tell me.
Until you all shared its magic with me.
I need to play Can Your Pet but then it got wrong.
i mean seriously what a shitty poem!
my travel friend looked really good when i saw him, like uhh idk. should've taken his photo
Yes, I will marry you.
the lead singer of fall out boy will be distraught!
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