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 Now online (1)big ...and 438 guests Last 5 registered Oplandisks nothingstar N_loop yipe foxtrotromeo Browse members... |
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Members 8025Messages 2614239 Today 8 Topics 127550 |
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"Hate Breeds In Black Beauties Mane" A woe-laden goddess, heartfelt and modest with black hair (velvet drapes), that frame her creaseless-canvas light-peach face, (too great and delicate to contemplate). Her deep dark oceanic eyes reflect the moon on a rolling tide, a tear constructs at either side. Woe weaves within the wounds of lovers lost, those that remained and those lovers forgot, and turns a burning heart into bitter frost. And hate breeds in Black Beauties mane, remains unnoticed and remains un-slain, infiltrates and assimilates until she's changed. |
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As burning feauers, agues pale, and faint, Life-poysoning pestilence, and frendzies wood, The marrow-eating sicknesse whose attaint, Disorder breeds by heating of the blood |
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no hate! love, man! love!!!! XD funny poetry btw |
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Brring on the hate poems |
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'She' I drank and the big drink drank me. I'm just floating irretrievably out to sea, clasping a crinkled picture portrait of 'she' with her flawless, immaculate, superiority. Just a shipwreck surrounded intolerably by solitary hope displaced, infinitely replaced with misery. So I drank and the big drink drank me. |
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One of my personal faves: 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 like a rusty bible, like someone pulling barbed wire across a stone courtyard, like a pig drowning, a vattacka being fried a bone shaking hands a frog singing at Carnegie Hall. Like a crow swimming in milk, like a nose being hit by a mango like the crowd at the Royal-Thornian match, a womb full of twins, a pariah dog with a magpie in its mouth like the midnight jet from Casablanca like Air Pakistan curry, a typewriter on fire, like a spirit in the gas which cooks your dinner, like a hundred pappadans being crunched, like someone uselessly trying to light 3 Roses matches in a dark room, the clicking sound of a reef when you put your head into the sea, a dolphin reciting epic poetry to a sleepy audience, the sound of a fan when someone throws brinjals at it, like pineapples being sliced in the Pettah market like betel juice hitting a butterfly in mid-air like a whole village running naked onto the street and tearing their sarongs, like an angry family pushing a jeep out of the mud, like dirt on the needle, like 8 sharks being carried on the back of a bicycle like 3 old ladies locked in the lavatory like the sound I heard when having an afternoon sleep and someone walked through my room in ankle bracelets. |
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man.. this thread fell like a ton of bricks. |
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I liked your first poem by the way Anus.. did you write it? If I were to just glance at it on the screen and kinda skim the surface I would say I didn' like it.. but it ended up being pretty cool... hmm.. I'm no poetry expert though I guess. I know when I like something though. I should take this opportunity to say back in the day I use to be really annoyed by you, but now you are one of my favorite posters.. I think it's because you changed your avatar from that pixelated drawing of the little bird pooping.. man, I hated that. Now it's a cocky dude that's turnin' around, all "what did you just say about me?".. Rockin. Is that you? |
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Thanks pomme, I like you to. Yeah I wrrote it, and yourr rright to glance at it, it looks shit even in my opinion, but I can't seem to lay it out any betterr without rruining the way its meant to be rread. Lol my avatarr is Tom Waits, my herro. Its frrom the coverr of the album Mule Variations. |
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Herro is a little extrreme, lets say idol. The drrop out that did good, i think if he did maybe i can. |
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Daggers of moonlight Murder the sheets in the stink of a four dollar room And Daddy’s gone a-hunting for a dimebag of schoolboy Tied up with a yellow balloon So hush little baby daddy must go I’ll cover you up with a blanket of snow By the time I make Jersey you’ll be in heaven In a pretty blue shoe box, I know So sing a song of ten grand with a pocket full of dough And I can’t take you to Baltimore Wake God up in heaven Have him look down below There’s a little lost angel blooming in the snow Tom Waits, "Bronx Lullaby" |
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