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Thread: poetry thread

  1. #21
    Join Date
    Feb 2012
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    Three Poems By Tao Lin

    That night with the green sky

    It was snowing and you were kind of beautiful
    We were in the city and every time I looked up
    Someone was leaning out a window, staring at me

    I could tell you liked me a lot or maybe even loved me
    But you kept walking at this strange speed
    You kept going in angles and it was confusing me

    I think maybe you were thinking that you'd make me disappear
    By walking at strange speeds and in a strange, curvy way
    But how would that cause me to vanish from the planet Earth?

    And that hurts
    Why did you want me gone?
    That hurts
    I don't know
    Some things can't be explained, I guess
    The sky, for example, was green that night

    Poems that look weird

    One time I wrote a poem that looked really weird
    It looked like a scrabble board would
    If I were playing against you and losing by three hundred or something
    Because I'd just mix up all the tiles then, and
    You'd be angry but you'd laugh and that would be fun

    This other time you had The Paris Review anthology
    And you were looking for a poem about boats to show me
    And I pointed at a poem that looked weird
    And I said, I hate it when they do that
    And you said, I don't, I think it's pretty

    Another time I was thinking about you
    And I was thinking that you think that weird poems are pretty
    And I think that you are pretty
    I was thinking that there was something there, in that thought
    Some sort of connection that was completely free of bullshit, finally

    A poem I can read, stand back from, understand, and nod at

    I've started lying to editors of literary magazines
    I tell them I'm in Taiwan or Nicaragua or something
    So can I email my submission?
    All lies

    I don't feel sneaky and good about this
    I don't pat myself on the back
    And I don't brag to friends
    I don't even smile
    But I do save paper, ink, money, and time

  2. #22
    Beyond Grantlike
    Join Date
    Jan 2013
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    When I'm on the mountain (Kilimanjaro) They call me Meme Master
    The wanton troopers riding by
    Have shot my fawn, and it will die.
    Ungentle men! they cannot thrive
    To kill thee. Thou ne’er didst alive
    Them any harm, alas, nor could
    Thy death yet do them any good.
    I’m sure I never wish’d them ill,
    Nor do I for all this, nor will;
    But if my simple pray’rs may yet
    Prevail with Heaven to forget
    Thy murder, I will join my tears
    Rather than fail. But oh, my fears!
    It cannot die so. Heaven’s King
    Keeps register of everything,
    And nothing may we use in vain.
    Ev’n beasts must be with justice slain,
    Else men are made their deodands;
    Though they should wash their guilty hands
    In this warm life-blood, which doth part
    From thine, and wound me to the heart,
    Yet could they not be clean, their stain
    Is dyed in such a purple grain.
    There is not such another in
    The world to offer for their sin.

    Unconstant Sylvio, when yet
    I had not found him counterfeit
    One morning (I remember well)
    Tied in this silver chain and bell,
    Gave it to me; nay, and I know
    What he said then; I’m sure I do.
    Said he, “Look how your huntsman here
    Hath taught a fawn to hunt his dear.”
    But Sylvio soon had me beguil’d,
    This waxed tame, while he grew wild;
    And quite regardless of my smart,
    Left me his fawn, but took his heart.

    Thenceforth I set myself to play
    My solitary time away,
    With this, and very well content
    Could so mine idle life have spent;
    For it was full of sport, and light
    Of foot and heart, and did invite
    Me to its game; it seem’d to bless
    Itself in me. How could I less
    Than love it? Oh, I cannot be
    Unkind t’ a beast that loveth me.

    Had it liv’d long, I do not know
    Whether it too might have done so
    As Sylvio did; his gifts might be
    Perhaps as false or more than he.
    But I am sure, for aught that I
    Could in so short a time espy,
    Thy love was far more better then
    The love of false and cruel men.

    With sweetest milk and sugar first
    I it at mine own fingers nurst;
    And as it grew, so every day
    It wax’d more white and sweet than they.
    It had so sweet a breath! And oft
    I blush’d to see its foot more soft
    And white, shall I say than my hand?
    Nay, any lady’s of the land.

    It is a wond’rous thing how fleet
    ’Twas on those little silver feet;
    With what a pretty skipping grace
    It oft would challenge me the race;
    And when ’t had left me far away,
    ’Twould stay, and run again, and stay,
    For it was nimbler much than hinds,
    And trod, as on the four winds.

    I have a garden of my own,
    But so with roses overgrown
    And lilies, that you would it guess
    To be a little wilderness;
    And all the spring time of the year
    It only loved to be there.
    Among the beds of lilies I
    Have sought it oft, where it should lie;
    Yet could not, till itself would rise,
    Find it, although before mine eyes;
    For, in the flaxen lilies’ shade,
    It like a bank of lilies laid.
    Upon the roses it would feed
    Until its lips ev’n seemed to bleed,
    And then to me ’twould boldly trip
    And print those roses on my lip.
    But all its chief delight was still
    On roses thus itself to fill,
    And its pure virgin limbs to fold
    In whitest sheets of lilies cold.
    Had it liv’d long it would have been
    Lilies without, roses within.

    O help, O help! I see it faint,
    And die as calmly as a saint.
    See how it weeps! The tears do come,
    Sad, slowly dropping like a gum.
    So weeps the wounded balsam, so
    The holy frankincense doth flow;
    The brotherless Heliades
    Melt in such amber tears as these.

    I in a golden vial will
    Keep these two crystal tears, and fill
    It till it do o’erflow with mine,
    Then place it in Diana’s shrine.

    Now my sweet fawn is vanish’d to
    Whither the swans and turtles go,
    In fair Elysium to endure
    With milk-white lambs and ermines pure.
    O do not run too fast, for I
    Will but bespeak thy grave, and die.

    First my unhappy statue shall
    Be cut in marble, and withal
    Let it be weeping too; but there
    Th’ engraver sure his art may spare,
    For I so truly thee bemoan
    That I shall weep though I be stone;
    Until my tears, still dropping, wear
    My breast, themselves engraving there.
    There at my feet shalt thou be laid,
    Of purest alabaster made;
    For I would have thine image be
    White as I can, though not as thee.

  3. #23
    Join Date
    Apr 2015
    I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness,
    starving hysterical naked,
    dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking
    for an angry fix,
    angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
    connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
    who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking
    in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating
    across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
    who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw
    Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs
    who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes
    hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the
    scholars of war,
    who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing
    obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
    who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their
    money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through
    the wall,
    who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo
    with a belt of marijuana for New York,
    who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise
    Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night
    with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and
    cock and endless balls,
    incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in
    the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson,
    illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,
    Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns,
    wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of
    teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon
    and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn,
    ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
    who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from
    Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of
    wheels and children brought them down shuddering
    mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of
    brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,
    who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford’s floated out
    and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate
    Fugazzi’s, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen
    who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to
    Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
    a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the
    stoops off fire escapes off windowsills of Empire State out
    of the moon,
    yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and
    memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of
    hospitals and jails and wars,
    whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and
    nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on
    the pavement,
    who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of
    ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,
    suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and
    migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark’s bleak
    furnished room,
    who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad
    yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken
    who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing
    through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,
    who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and
    bop kabbalah because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at
    their feet in Kansas, who loned it through the streets of
    Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary
    indian angels,
    who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in
    supernatural ecstasy,
    who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on
    the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,
    who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz
    or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to
    converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and
    so took ship to Africa,
    who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind
    nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of
    poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago,
    who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in
    beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark
    skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,
    who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the
    narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
    who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square
    weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos
    wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten
    Island ferry also wailed,
    who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and
    trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,
    who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in
    policecars for committing no crime but their own wild
    cooking pederasty and intoxication,
    who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off
    the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,
    who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists,
    and screamed with joy,
    who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors,
    caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,
    who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and
    the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their
    semen freely to whomever come who may,
    who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob
    behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked
    angel came to pierce them with a sword,
    who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one
    eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew
    that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does
    nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden
    threads of the craftsman’s loom.
    who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a
    sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the
    bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and
    ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt
    and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
    who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the
    sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared to
    sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under
    barns and naked in the lake,
    who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen
    night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and
    Adonis of Denver--joy to the memory of his innumerable lays
    of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses’
    rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt
    waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings
    & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, &
    hometown alleys too,
    who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams,
    woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out
    of basements hungover with heartless Tokay and horrors of
    Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment
    who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the
    snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open
    to a room full of steamheat and opium,
    who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of
    the Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon &
    their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
    who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at
    the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery,
    who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full
    of onions and bad music,
    who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and
    rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts,

    who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame
    under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of
    who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations
    which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,
    who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas
    dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,
    who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,
    who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for
    Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads
    every day for the next decade,
    who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave
    up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought
    they were growing old and cried,
    who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison
    Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of
    the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of
    the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister
    intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs
    of Absolute Reality,
    who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and
    walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of
    Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free
    who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway
    window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried
    all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot
    smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s
    German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into
    the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of
    colossal steamwhistles,
    who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to the
    each other’s hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or
    Birmingham jazz incarnation, who drove crosscountry
    seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had
    a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,
    who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to
    Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver &
    brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find
    out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
    who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each
    other’s salvation and light and breasts, until the soul
    illuminated its hair for a second,
    who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible
    criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their
    hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,
    who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to
    tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the
    black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the
    daisychain or grave,
    who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism &
    were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,
    who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and
    subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of
    the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of
    suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy,
    and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol
    electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy
    pingpong & amnesia,
    who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong
    table, resting briefly in catatonia,
    returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and
    tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of
    the madtowns of the East,
    Pilgrim State’s Rockland’s and Greystone’s foetid halls, bickering
    with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the
    midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life
    a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,
    with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book flung out
    of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 a.m.
    and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the
    last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental
    furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the
    closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little
    bit of hallucination--
    ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you’re
    really in the total animal soup of time--
    and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a
    sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipse the
    catalog the meter & the vibrating plane,
    who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through
    images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul
    between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and
    set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping
    with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus
    to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and
    stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking
    with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform
    to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,
    the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting
    down here what might be left to say in time come after
    and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn
    shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America’s naked
    mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani
    saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio
    with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their
    own bodies good to eat a thousand years.

  4. #24
    Join Date
    Apr 2015
    What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open their skulls
    and ate up their brains and imagination?
    Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable
    dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys
    sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks!
    Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless!
    Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!
    Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone
    soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch
    whose buildings are judgment! Moloch the vast stone of
    war! Moloch the stunned governments!
    Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is
    running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies!
    Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose
    ear is a smoking tomb!
    Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose
    skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless
    Jehovahs! Moloch whose factories dream and croak in the
    fog! Moloch whose smokestacks and antennae crown the
    Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is
    electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter
    of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless
    hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind!
    Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels!
    Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and
    manless in Moloch!
    Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a
    consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out
    of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in
    Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky!
    Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs! skeleton
    treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral
    nations! invincible mad houses granite cocks! monstrous
    They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements,
    trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists
    and is everywhere about us!
    Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the
    American river!
    Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload
    of sensitive bullshit!
    Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down
    the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years’ animal
    screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation!
    down on the rocks of Time!
    Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the
    holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roof to
    solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the

  5. #25
    Beyond Grantlike
    Join Date
    Jan 2013
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    When I'm on the mountain (Kilimanjaro) They call me Meme Master
    only poetry i read in college that i liked

  6. #26
    Join Date
    Jun 2015
    Steam ID
    Me and Jone
    Spreading Genome
    Me and Ethen
    Fucking For No Reason
    I Love His Dick
    It Moves So Quick
    Hahaha. Oh Im Sick
    Jones Was A Trick

  7. #27
    Godlike nt.'s Avatar
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    Feb 2014

  8. #28
    Godlike nt.'s Avatar
    Join Date
    Feb 2014
    by ee cummings

  9. #29
    Join Date
    Jul 2015
    C'mon guys open the cathartic floodgates to my soul

  10. #30
    Join Date
    Jun 2015
    Steam ID
    Syllable One Two Three
    How Many Syllables Is "Really"?
    Turns Out Its Not So Clear.
    Superfluous Four Five Six
    Rabbit in A Hat Full Of Tricks
    Suck My Dick Stupid Fag
    Get Shot In Head Get a Heart Attack
    Fuck You Kapten Robert.
    Suck My Dick and Eat My Excrement.
    Last edited by jacob; December 29th, 2015 at 09:11 PM.

  11. #31
    I love Love LOVE NADOTA!!
    Join Date
    Feb 2015
    Quote Originally Posted by yung_nigga_sigma View Post
    that fucking black chick I fucked gave me chlamydia what the fuck. Thank god I got an std test literally the day after I fucked her so I caught it very early. I mean I also got it because I'm an ex IV drug user but whatever. Moral of the lesson: don't fuck ******s in rehabs but tbh getting to bust in a ****** raw twice was kind of worth the shot in the arm and two pills I had to take to get rid of the nasty disease she carried.

  12. #32
    I love Love LOVE NADOTA!!
    Join Date
    Feb 2015
    Quote Originally Posted by BloodyNine View Post
    when i was in a psych ward at 17 there was this pretty girl claudia whose 'friends' tried to kill her with rat poison in a 5th of tequila. she later tried to kill herself and ended up there. we held hands during group therapy once. we wrote some little shitty love poems to each other and we said we'd meet up after we got out. later, we got out and talked a little on e-mail but after a while i stopped responding. the idea was more romantic while we were inside. i wonder if she's alive
    also moving.
    Quote Originally Posted by yung_nigga_sigma View Post
    that fucking black chick I fucked gave me chlamydia what the fuck. Thank god I got an std test literally the day after I fucked her so I caught it very early. I mean I also got it because I'm an ex IV drug user but whatever. Moral of the lesson: don't fuck ******s in rehabs but tbh getting to bust in a ****** raw twice was kind of worth the shot in the arm and two pills I had to take to get rid of the nasty disease she carried.

  13. #33
    Join Date
    Sep 2013
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    pour your soul into me pepper 1900 elo chess plyaer 6k dota player

    ims ure posting infallmatory nadota threads to reddit translates to a surgical mastery over the english language

    badlucks easily got the best taste in here too btw

  14. #34
    I love Love LOVE NADOTA!!
    Join Date
    Feb 2015
    can we do haikus
    Quote Originally Posted by yung_nigga_sigma View Post
    that fucking black chick I fucked gave me chlamydia what the fuck. Thank god I got an std test literally the day after I fucked her so I caught it very early. I mean I also got it because I'm an ex IV drug user but whatever. Moral of the lesson: don't fuck ******s in rehabs but tbh getting to bust in a ****** raw twice was kind of worth the shot in the arm and two pills I had to take to get rid of the nasty disease she carried.

  15. #35
    ive literally only 'read' eliot and shakespeare

    I. The Burial of the Dead

    April is the cruellest month, breeding
    Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
    Memory and desire, stirring
    Dull roots with spring rain.
    Winter kept us warm, covering
    Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
    A little life with dried tubers.
    Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
    With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
    And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
    And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
    Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
    And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke’s,
    My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
    And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
    Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
    In the mountains, there you feel free.
    I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

    What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
    Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
    You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
    A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
    And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
    And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
    There is shadow under this red rock,
    (Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
    And I will show you something different from either
    Your shadow at morning striding behind you
    Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
    I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
    Frisch weht der Wind
    Der Heimat zu
    Mein Irisch Kind,
    Wo weilest du?
    “You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
    “They called me the hyacinth girl.”
    —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
    Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
    Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
    Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
    Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
    Oed’ und leer das Meer.

    Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
    Had a bad cold, nevertheless
    Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
    With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
    Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
    (Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
    Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
    The lady of situations.
    Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
    And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
    Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
    Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
    The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
    I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
    Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
    Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
    One must be so careful these days.

    Unreal City,
    Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
    A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
    I had not thought death had undone so many.
    Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
    And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
    Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
    To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
    With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
    There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: “Stetson!
    “You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
    “That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
    “Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
    “Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
    “Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,
    “Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!
    “You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”

  16. #36
    Holy Shit nyte's Avatar
    Join Date
    Nov 2010
    And he
    It shall be said
    Spoke waves of fire and ignited others
    Skies alight they fell atop one another
    Hissing and popping from pitch they rose
    Encouraged and incited to blunder in prose
    Ho, for on it shall be dropped with haste
    Fire! Let thine mixtape be based.
    Quote Originally Posted by GranDGranT View Post
    If your heart was as big as your mouth you'd be real, but it aint

  17. #37
    Holy Shit SCSF's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jun 2014
    Steam ID
    For years afterwards the farmers found them –
    the wasted young, turning up under their plough blades
    as they tended the land back into itself.

    A chit of bone, the china plate of a shoulder blade,
    the relic of a finger, the blown
    and broken bird’s egg of a skull,

    all mimicked now in flint, breaking blue in white
    across this field where they were told to walk, not run,
    towards the wood and its nesting machine guns.

    And even now the earth stands sentinel,
    reaching back into itself for reminders of what happened
    like a wound working a foreign body to the surface of the skin.

    This morning, twenty men buried in one long grave,
    a broken mosaic of bone linked arm in arm,
    their skeletons paused mid dance-macabre

    in boots that outlasted them,
    their socketed heads tilted back at an angle
    and their jaws, those that have them, dropped open.

    As if the notes they had sung
    have only now, with this unearthing,
    slipped from their absent tongues.
    Quote Originally Posted by Alightsoul View Post
    Ewiz is observably very stupid (chronic drinker and poor emotional control - both strong indicators of low IQ)
    Quote Originally Posted by Meesing View Post
    Does Liquid win TI7 under Hillary Clinton? Unlikely.

  18. #38
    I love Love LOVE NADOTA!!
    Join Date
    Feb 2015
    He that loves a rosy cheek,
    Or a coral lip admires,
    Or from starlike eyes doth seek
    Fuel to maintain his fires;
    As old Time makes these decay,
    So his flames must waste away.

    But a smooth and steadfast mind,
    Gentle thoughts and calm desires,
    Hearts with equal love combined,
    Kindle never-dying fires.
    Where these are not, I despise
    Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.

    No tears, Celia, now shall win
    My resolved heart to return;
    I have searched thy soul within,
    And find naught but pride and scorn;
    I have learned thy arts, and now
    Can disdain as much as thou.
    Some power, in my revenge convey
    That love to her I cast away.
    Quote Originally Posted by yung_nigga_sigma View Post
    that fucking black chick I fucked gave me chlamydia what the fuck. Thank god I got an std test literally the day after I fucked her so I caught it very early. I mean I also got it because I'm an ex IV drug user but whatever. Moral of the lesson: don't fuck ******s in rehabs but tbh getting to bust in a ****** raw twice was kind of worth the shot in the arm and two pills I had to take to get rid of the nasty disease she carried.

  19. #39
    It little profits that an idle king,
    By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
    Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
    Unequal laws unto a savage race,
    That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
    I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
    Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd
    Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
    That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when
    Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
    Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
    For always roaming with a hungry heart
    Much have I seen and known; cities of men
    And manners, climates, councils, governments,
    Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;
    And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
    Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
    I am a part of all that I have met;
    Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
    Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades
    For ever and forever when I move.
    How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
    To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
    As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life
    Were all too little, and of one to me
    Little remains: but every hour is saved
    From that eternal silence, something more,
    A bringer of new things; and vile it were
    For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
    And this gray spirit yearning in desire
    To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
    Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

    This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
    To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—
    Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
    This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
    A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
    Subdue them to the useful and the good.
    Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
    Of common duties, decent not to fail
    In offices of tenderness, and pay
    Meet adoration to my household gods,
    When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

    There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
    There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
    Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me—
    That ever with a frolic welcome took
    The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
    Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
    Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
    Death closes all: but something ere the end,
    Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
    Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
    The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
    The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
    Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
    'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
    Push off, and sitting well in order smite
    The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
    To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
    Of all the western stars, until I die.
    It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
    It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
    And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
    Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
    We are not now that strength which in old days
    Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
    One equal temper of heroic hearts,
    Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
    To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

  20. #40
    You are mine, darling, mine! I love you. All I have written above is only a moment or two of brutal madness. The last drop of seed has hardly been squirted up your cunt before it is over and my true love for you, the love of my verses, the love of my eyes for your strange luring eyes, comes blowing over my soul like a wind of spices. My prick is still hot and stiff and quivering from the last brutal drive it has given you when a faint hymn is heard rising in tender pitiful worship of you from the dim cloisters of my heart.
    this shit aint even poetry

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