Poetry is . . .

135

Comments

  • Sharon_Hearts_PJ
    Sharon_Hearts_PJ Bristol, PA Posts: 1,383
    Originally posted by setaside2

    I sincerely hope my emotions will be of museum quality.

    they already are
    *Rock and/or Roll!*
  • Radar(Baba)O'Riley
    Radar(Baba)O'Riley Posts: 947
    Originally posted by CranMalReign
    I wonder what sad moth wings taste like.
    Chicken.

























































    And porn.
  • Radar(Baba)O'Riley
    Radar(Baba)O'Riley Posts: 947
    Originally posted by setaside2
    I sincerely hope my emotions will be of museum quality.
    Tour Guide #1: And over here, children, we have the crystallized homogenized pasturized and almost pulverized emotions of one Seticus Asiduious Sequelous. Its natural habitat is the mountainous-icecicled-ninth circle of Hell on Earth: Colorado. Specifically Littleton. Yes, little boy, you have a question?

    Little Boy: Is the Seti..Cussing thing dangerous?

    Tour Guide #1: Only when auctioned. (Continuing) At one time, children, these emotions roamed freely over great poetry forums and survived by posting philosophical incantations that would make the Wakowski Brothers perplexed. These emotions were very beatiful and yet, very fragile. That's because the Seticus loved so much. It was so full of love and compassion that sometimes it got hurt giving its love away, especially to Vietnamese prostitutes in assless chaps. You see, children, the mighty Seticus loved assless chaps. Legend has it that the Seticus sheds assless chaps twice a night during its lifetime. That's a whole lotta asslessness, children. However, all that got in the way of Seticus's dream world: A world in which everyone was a poet........in assless chaps. This passion ultimately led to the extinction of Seticus, for one day it got a bad case of the crabs and itched itself to death. It died in its assless chaps, but the chaps were completely erased by time. All that is left, is the tattered emotions of what could've been. Oh, what could've been.....

    Tour Guide #2: And over here, we have Pamela Anderson's original breasts.
  • setaside2
    setaside2 Posts: 1,084


    SUEDE assless chaps, dear Radar.

    sigh. The great part is.. I feel the love. You made me smile, sir. And that hasn't happened often enough these past weeks. Thank you.

    Poetry is.... sir Radar Baba O'Riley. He is the poet.
    I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
  • Radar(Baba)O'Riley
    Radar(Baba)O'Riley Posts: 947
    Originally posted by setaside2

    He is the poet.
    But I don't know it.
    But my feet show it
    Cuz I'm wearing Longfellows.
  • setaside2
    setaside2 Posts: 1,084
    weeeeeaaaaaaak dude.


    weeeeeeaaaaaak.


    but still, somehow, humorous.


    :D
    I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
  • Radar(Baba)O'Riley
    Radar(Baba)O'Riley Posts: 947
    Originally posted by setaside2
    weeeeeaaaaaaak dude.
    You should see my Jerry Sienfeld impersonation:

    "What's the deal . . . with vending machines? Honestly."
  • setaside2
    setaside2 Posts: 1,084
    Originally posted by Radar(Baba)O'Riley
    You should see my Jerry Sienfeld impersonation:

    "What's the deal . . . with vending machines? Honestly."


    LOL!

    Considering my rather low opinion of Jerry Seinfeld and his so-called "humor" I tend to find that an EXCELLENT impersonation. Keep it up, maestro.
    I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
  • lifeisworth
    lifeisworth Posts: 186
    Originally posted by setaside2
    Your footsteps bleed water and I stoop to drink as I follow, grateful for the little that you give in the dirt.





    (:
    Nosotros nunca escuchamos la voz adentro
  • setaside2
    setaside2 Posts: 1,084
    lifeisworth, I have to say that it is always an honor to post alongside you and it has been since we started on this board.

    so there. :D
    I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
  • Radar(Baba)O'Riley
    Radar(Baba)O'Riley Posts: 947
    Originally posted by setaside2

    SUEDE assless chaps, dear Radar.
    seta has it made in the suede.
  • lifeisworth
    lifeisworth Posts: 186
    Originally posted by setaside2
    lifeisworth, I have to say that it is always an honor to post alongside you and it has been since we started on this board.

    so there. :D


    my most gracious thanks
    i'm honored by your honorable honoring

    we wait you know...


    here... my "leaves" thing... (it's old..)

    bristles
    scrape
    concrete
    schloughing
    leaves
    wet from rain

    and your hands
    scrape pale skin
    schloughing cells
    rough from rowing

    but while both
    are very different
    they two sound
    just the same
    in my mind
    leaving puddles
    in the grass







    :) we wait...

    rather patiently, wouldn't you agree?
    Nosotros nunca escuchamos la voz adentro
  • setaside2
    setaside2 Posts: 1,084
    and what, pray tell, are you waiting oh so patiently for? Those beatific expressions give away nothing.

    Damn the poker faces of the faceless.

    sigh.
    I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
  • TheSkyEtc
    TheSkyEtc Athens, GR Posts: 66
    what you call poetry
    might be true for a little while
    what you think of poetry
    can be an inch or a mile

    these are the words
    and the feelings between the lines
    words like swords
    behind the enemy lines

    don't ever care
    what poetry is
    it's just another broken ceiling
    coz poetry itself
    is more important
    than its own secret meaning


    #that was an improv#

    thank you,for giving me an instant inspiration
    A whisper through a megaphone
  • Edveddmfc
    Edveddmfc Posts: 17
    Poetry is an extension of self. It is one's feelings and emotions served up articulately in a certain manner not for exploitation, but rather for enlightenment.
    I waited all day.
    You waited all day..
    but you left before sunset..
    and I just wanted to tell you
    the moment was beautiful.
    Just wanted to dance to bad music
    drive bad cars..
    watch bad tv..
    should have stayed for the sunset...
    if not for me.
  • Radar(Baba)O'Riley
    Radar(Baba)O'Riley Posts: 947
    What follows, ladies and jammers, is a sketch written by Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie for their show "A Bit of Fry and Laurie" which aired on the BBC in the late 80s, early 90s. Fry and Laurie are practically Gods to me, and after I read this lil' bit, my pants were bursting with excreted excitement. Frankly, I see you all in this sketch. :D

    **SCENE TAKES PLACE IN A SCHOOL OFFICE. HEADMASTER IS SITTING BEHIND DESK, WHEN TERRY KNOCKS**

    HEADMASTER: Come
    (Terry tarries not and enters)
    HEADMASTER: Ah, Terry, come in, come in.
    TERRY: Thank you, sir.
    HEADMASTER: Well now, do you know why I sent for you?
    TERRY: Not really.
    HEADMASTER: Not really? Well, let me see. Firstly, let me congratulate you on winning the School Poetry Prize.
    TERRY: Thank you, sir.
    HEADMASTER: Mr. Drip tells me that it was the most mature and exciting poem that he has ever received from a pupil. Don't suck your thumb, boy.
    TERRY: I'm not, sir.
    HEADMASTER: No, it was just a piece of general advice for the future.
    TERRY. Oh.
    HEADMASTER: Now, Terry. Terry, Terry, Terrance. I've read your poem, Terry. I can't pretend to be much of a judge of poetry. I'm a headmaster, not a homosexual. But I have to say it worried me.
    TERRY: Oh?
    HEADMASTER: Yes, it worried me. I have it here. Um, you entitled it "Inked Ravens of Despair Claw Holes in the Arse of the World's Mind." I mean, what type of title is that?
    TERRY: It's my title, sir.
    HEADMASTER: "Arse of the World's Mind"? What does that mean? Are you unhappy about something?
    TERRY: Well, I think that's what the poem explores.
    HEADMASTER: Explores? Explores! Oh it explores, does it? I see. "Scrotal threats unhorse a question of flowers." I mean, what's the matter boy?! Are you sickening for something? Or is it a girl?
    TERRY: Well, it's not something I think I can explain, sir, it's all in the poem.
    HEADMASTER: It certainly all is in the poem. "I asked for answers and got a headful of heroin in return." Now, Terry. Look at me. Who gave you this heroin? You must tell me. If this is the problem, we must do something about it.
    TERRY: Well, no one gave me herion, sir.
    HEADMASTER: So this poem is a lie, is it? A fiction, a fantasy? What's happening?
    TERRY: No. It's all true. It's autobiographical.
    HEADMASTER: Then, Terry, I must insist. Who has been giving you herion?
    TERRY: Well, sir, you have.
    HEADMASTER: I have. I have?! What are you talking about, you diseased boy? This is rank, standing impertinence. I haven't given you any heroin. How dare you.
    TERRY: No, it's a metaphor.
    HEADMASTER: Metaphor? How?
    TERRY: It means I came to school to learn, but I just get junk instead of answers.
    HEADMASTER: Junk?! Junk? What do you mean?
    TERRY: It's just an opinion.
    HEADMASTER: Oh, is it? And is this an opinion, too? "When time fell wanking to the floor, they kicked his teeth." Time fell wanking to the floor?! Is this just put in to shock or is there something personal you with to discuss with me?
    TERRY: It's a quotation.
    HEADMASTER: A quotation? What from? It isn't Milton. It's not from Wordsworth.
    TERRY: It's Bowie.
    HEADMASTER: Bowie? Bowie?
    TERRY: David Bowie.
    HEADMASTER: Oh, and is this David Bowie, too: "My body disqusts, damp grease wafts sweat balls from sweat balls and thigh fungus"? I mean, don't you wash?
    TERRY: Of course.
    HEADMASTER: Then why does your body disqust you? It seems alright to me. I mean, why can't you write about meadows or something?
    TERRY: I've never seen a meadow.
    HEADMASTER: Well, what do you think the imagination is for? "A girl strips in my mind, squeezes my last pumping drop of hope and rolls me over to sleep alone." You are fifteen, Terry! What is going on inside you?
    TERRY: That's what-
    HEADMASTER: That's what the poem explores, don't tell me. I don't understand you.
    TERRY: Well, you were young once.
    HEADMASTER: Yes, in a sense, of course.
    TERRY: Didn't you ever feel like that?
    HEADMASTER: You mean did I ever want to "fireball the dead cities of the mind and watch the skin peel and warp"? Then, no, thankfully, I can say I did not. I may have been unhappy from time to time, if I lost my stamp album or broke a penknife, but I didn't write it down like this and show it to people.
    TERRY: Perhaps it might have been better for you if you had.
    HEADMASTER: Oh, might it, young Terence? I suppose I am one of the "unhappy bubbles of anal wind popping and winking in the mortal bath"? Am I?
    TERRY: Well-
    HEADMASTER: Your silence tells me everything. I am, aren't I? I'm an unhappy bubble of anal wind.
    TERRY: Well, I am one, too.
    HEADMASTER: Oh, well, as long as we're all unhappy bubbles of anal wind then of course there's no problem. But I don't propose to advertise the fact to parents. If this is poetry, then every lavatory wall in Britain is an anthology. What about "The Oxford Book of Verse"? Where's that gone?
    TERRY: Perhaps that's the lavatory paper.
    HEADMASTER: Oh, I don't understand anymore. I just don't understand.
    TERRY: Never mind, sir. You're a bit frustrated perhaps. You've got a lonely job I'm sure.
    HEADMASTER: I am frustrated. Very frustrated. And it is a lonely job, boy. So lonely. I am assailed by doubts, wracked by fear.
    TERRY: Write it down.
    HEADMASTER: Eh?
    TERRY: Write it down. Get it out of your system. "Assailed by doubts, wracked by fear."
    HEADMASTER: Yes, yes. You think? "Assailed by doubts and wracked by fear, tossed in a wrecked mucus foam of . . . of . . ."
    TERRY: Hatred?
    HEADMASTER: Good. Good! What about "steamed loathing"?
    TERRY: Better. You're a natural.
    (Terry slips away.)
    HEADMASTER: ". . . wrecked mucus foam of steamed loathing. Snot trails of lust perforate the bowels of my intent . . ."

    And everyone lived happily in a bubble of anal wind ever after.
  • setaside2
    setaside2 Posts: 1,084
    Pearl Jam = The Force


    I am the headmaster.
    I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
  • Radar(Baba)O'Riley
    Radar(Baba)O'Riley Posts: 947
    Originally posted by setaside2
    I am the headmaster.
    hehe....seta's a HEAD master......hehe
  • Being Enlightened
    Being Enlightened Posts: 5,746
    LMFAO! Good one Radar! Hey seta, how's yer, ahem, HEAD?
    Forget your perfect offering, there is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in. - Leonard Cohen
  • setaside2
    setaside2 Posts: 1,084
    oh my holy cow you guys.

    seriously.


    and B.E. my head isn't so good. Apparently you taught me all wrong and it's just gotten worse. I'm figuring that I may turn to Radar's expertise to, ahem, pull it off properly.

    :p:D

    I suppose I should have known better.

    Sigh.

    I've learned my lesson. For now.

    And B.E. I would like a free lesson in return for all the bad ones.
    I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.

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