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OfflineMiddleFinger
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Registered: 02/12/06
Posts: 1,402
Last seen: 14 years, 9 months
Do you enjoy poetry?
    #7511370 - 10/12/07 12:05 AM (16 years, 5 months ago)

Being a poet myself, I am always looking for the next great writer... The next poem to push the boundaries of our language.

Recently, I discovered a poet named Richard Siken. Dude has invoked an epiphany within me. American creativity is not dead. Infact, we are now the home of the best poet to come along in decades.

Behold the brillaince of Richard Siken:

"Scheherazade"

Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake
                              and dress them in warm clothes again.
      How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running
Until they forget that they are horses.
        It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,
        it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio,
                        how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days
were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple
                                                                                          to slice into pieces.
Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means
        we’re inconsolable.
                                              Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
                                    Tell me we’ll never get used to it.



Just thought I'd share my newest obsession and inspiration with the good people of the shroomery. For those of you who write, I hope you find the same inspiration from this man's work as I have.


:toast:


--------------------
History says, Don't hope

On this side of the grave.

But then, once in a lifetime

The longed-for tidal wave

Of justice can rise up

And hope and history rhyme.

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Offlinewrestler_az
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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: MiddleFinger]
    #7511443 - 10/12/07 12:41 AM (16 years, 5 months ago)

i like poetry, when i get around to reading it. though i must confess, this is the first poem in a long time that has drifted across my field of vision.

i liked first two lines...

but once the author started talking of horses and police radios, i got lost a bit. i like sliced apples, though they taste better when sauced. im usually asleep at noon, and love to me is a lot like todays to-do list... its better off left alone till tomorrow.

and i can honestly tell you, that i will never get used to it. the day i do, is the day i die. all in all a decent poem... though im sorry to say it hasnt given me much inspiration to do much of anything...

im in a bit of an emo mood tonight, can ya tell?




p.s. im drunk on sparks...

:woot:


--------------------
how's your WOW?





  Edited by yageman (04/20/06 4:20 PM) 

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OfflineMiddleFinger
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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: wrestler_az]
    #7511456 - 10/12/07 12:53 AM (16 years, 5 months ago)

Quote:

wrestler_az said:
i like poetry, when i get around to reading it. though i must confess, this is the first poem in a long time that has drifted across my field of vision.

i liked first two lines...

but once the author started talking of horses and police radios, i got lost a bit. i like sliced apples, though they taste better when sauced. im usually asleep at noon, and love to me is a lot like todays to-do list... its better off left alone till tomorrow.

and i can honestly tell you, that i will never get used to it. the day i do, is the day i die. all in all a decent poem... though im sorry to say it hasnt given me much inspiration to do much of anything...

im in a bit of an emo mood tonight, can ya tell?




p.s. im drunk on sparks...

:woot:



I feel ya, brotha.


I'm drunk as fuck right now, and have been writing manically for the last two hours.

Back to Siken:

Your response is interesting. The images you gathered seem obvious, but I've shown this poem to many other people and NONE of them responded the way you have.

I disagree with your criticisms, but they seem valid nonetheless.

How about:

There’s a part in the movie
where you can see right through the acting,
                      where you can tell that I’m about to burst into tears
        right before I burst into tears
                    and flee to the slimy moonlit riverbed
                                                                    canopied with devastated clouds.
We’re shooting the scene where I swallow your heart and you make me
              spit it up again. I swallow your heart and it crawls
                                                                                        right out of my mouth.


Or:

very morning the maple leaves.
                              Every morning another chapter where the hero shifts
            from one foot to the other. Every morning the same big
and little words all spelling out desire, all spelling out
                                            You will be alone always and then you will die.
So maybe I wanted to give you something more than a catalog
        of non-definitive acts,
something other than the desperation.
                  Dear So-and-So, I'm sorry I couldn't come to your party.
Dear So-and-So, I'm sorry I came to your party
        and seduced you
and left you bruised and ruined, you poor sad thing.
                                                        Your want a better story. Who wouldn't?
A forest, then. Beautiful trees. And a lady singing.
                  Love on the water, love underwater, love, love and so on.
What a sweet lady. Sing lady, sing! Of course, she wakes the dragon.
            Love always wakes the dragon and suddenly
                                                                              flames everywhere.
I can tell already you think I'm the dragon,
                that would be so like me, but I'm not. I'm not the dragon.
I'm not the princess either.
                          Who am I? I'm just a writer. I write things down.
I walk through your dreams and invent the future. Sure,
            I sink the boat of love, but that comes later. And yes, I swallow
        glass, but that comes later.
                                                      And the part where I push you
flush against the wall and every part of your body rubs against the bricks,
            shut up
I'm getting to it.
                                    For a while I thought I was the dragon.
I guess I can tell you that now. And, for a while, I thought I was
                                                                                                the princess,
cotton candy pink, sitting there in my room, in the tower of the castle,
          young and beautiful and in love and waiting for you with
confidence
            but the princess looks into her mirror and only sees the princess,
while I'm out here, slogging through the mud, breathing fire,
                                                              and getting stabbed to death.
                                    Okay, so I'm the dragon. Bid deal.
          You still get to be the hero.
You get the magic gloves! A fish that talks! You get eyes like flashlights!
                  What more do you want?
I make you pancakes, I take you hunting, I talk to you as if you're
            really there.
Are you there, sweetheart? Do you know me? Is this microphone live?
                                                      Let me do it right for once,
            for the record, let me make a thing of cream and stars that becomes,
you know the story, simply heaven.
                  Inside your head you hear a phone ringing
                                                              and when you open your eyes
only a clearing with deer in it. Hello deer.
                              Inside your head the sound of glass,
a car crash sound as the trucks roll over and explode in slow motion.
            Hello darling, sorry about that.
                                                      Sorry about the bony elbows, sorry we
lived here, sorry about the scene at the bottom of the stairwell
                                    and how I ruined everything by saying it out loud.
            Especially that, but I should have known.
You see, I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back together
            to make a creature that will do what I say
or love me back.
                  I'm not really sure why I do it, but in this version you are not
feeding yourself to a bad man
                                      against a black sky prickled with small lights.
            I take it back.
The wooden halls likes caskets. These terms from the lower depths.
                                                I take them back.
Here is the repeated image of the lover destroyed.
                                                                              Crossed out.
            Clumsy hands in a dark room. Crossed out. There is something
underneath the floorboards.
                  Crossed out. And here is the tabernacle
                                                                            reconstructed.
Here is the part where everyone was happy all the time and we were all
              forgiven,
even though we didn't deserve it.
                                                      Inside your head you hear
a phone ringing, and when you open your eyes you're washing up
            in a stranger's bathroom,
standing by the window in a yellow towel, only twenty minutes away
                          from the dirtiest thing you know.
All the rooms of the castle except this one, says someone, and suddenly
                                                                            darkness,
                                                                  suddenly only darkness.
In the living room, in the broken yard,
                          in the back of the car as the lights go by. In the airport
          bathroom's gurgle and flush, bathed in a pharmacy of
unnatural light,
            my hands looking weird, my face weird, my feet too far away.
And the the airplane, the window seat over the wing with a view
                                                  of the wing and a little foil bag of peanuts.
I arrived in the city and you met me at the station,
          smiling in a way
              that made me frightened. Down the alley, around the arcade,
          up the stairs of the building
to the little room with the broken faucets, your drawings, all your things,
                                                I looked out the window and said
                  This doesn't look that much different from home,
            because it didn't,
but then I noticed the black sky and all those lights.
                                    We walked through the house to the elevated train.
            All these buildings, all that glass and the shiny beautiful
                                                                        mechanical wind.
We were inside the train car when I started to cry. You were crying too,
            smiling and crying in a way that made me
even more hysterical. You said I could have anything I wanted, but I
                                                                  just couldn't say it out loud.
Actually, you said Love, for you,
                              is larger than the usual romantic love. It's like a religion. It's
                                                                              terrifying. No one
                                                              will ever want to sleep with you.
Okay, if you're so great, you do it—
                  here's the pencil, make it work . . .
If the window is on your right, you are in your own bed. If the window
            is over your heart, and it is painted shut, then we are breathing
river water.
            Build me a city and call it Jerusalem. Build me another and call it
                                                                                              Jerusalem.
                  We have come back from Jerusalem where we found not
what we sought, so do it over, give me another version,
            a different room, another hallway, the kitchen painted over
and over,
            another bowl of soup.
The entire history of human desire takes about seventy minutes to tell.
            Unfortunately, we don't have that kind of time.
                                                                            Forget the dragon,
leave the gun on the table, this has nothing to do with happiness.
                                        Let's jump ahead to the moment of epiphany,
            in gold light, as the camera pans to where
the action is,
            lakeside and backlit, and it all falls into frame, close enough to see
                                          the blue rings of my eyes as I say
                                                                              something ugly.
I never liked that ending either. More love streaming out the wrong way,
            and I don't want to be the kind that says the wrong way.
But it doesn't work, these erasures, this constant refolding of the pleats.
                                            There were some nice parts, sure,
all lemondrop and mellonball, laughing in silk pajamas
            and the grains of sugar
                        on the toast, love love or whatever, take a number. I'm sorry
                                                                        it's such a lousy story.
Dear Forgiveness, you know that recently
                    we have had our difficulties and there are many things
                                                                              I want to ask you.
I tried that one time, high school, second lunch, and then again,
            years later, in the chlorinated pool.
                              I am still talking to you about help. I still do not have
            these luxuries.
I have told you where I'm coming from, so put it together.
                                              We clutch our bellies and roll on the floor . . .
            When I say this, it should mean laughter,
not poison.
                  I want more applesauce. I want more seats reserved for heroes.
Dear Forgiveness, I saved a plate for you.
                                          Quit milling around the yard and come inside.


-These are the only poems of his I can find online. I lost my Siken anthology (fuck cheap vodka) and cannot post any of his classic works.

Again: :toast:


--------------------
History says, Don't hope

On this side of the grave.

But then, once in a lifetime

The longed-for tidal wave

Of justice can rise up

And hope and history rhyme.

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Offlinewrestler_az
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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: MiddleFinger]
    #7511481 - 10/12/07 01:22 AM (16 years, 5 months ago)

that first one starts out good as the first one you posted... but as it goes on i get a little lost. it seems as though its a work in progress, and was posted in hopes someone would finish it for him. so, hes put up a front (as we all tend to do at times) and has found that the one he loves does not love him back...

it seems like there should be more...

there isnt much closure in this one, seems like its only half finished.



and that second one is entirely too long for my drunk ass to read, let alone critique. ill have to come back to that one when im sober. though from the bits i skimmed over, hes got some nice imagery going on with his words. im sure he could summarize the message into something a more reader friendly though.



but assuming these are all from the same author, i would have to say hes got his intros down... some work could be done with delivering the final message however... it seems to me he wants to drag it along a bit, thinking making it longer and more strung out will make it better. im not saying im some master poet, im far from it actually... but from what ive read as a reader id like to see him condense it a little. the faster you can get to the point in a poem, the better as far as im concerned...

but thats just me.

ill reread this thread tomorrow when im sober... my responses may be a little different.


--------------------
how's your WOW?





  Edited by yageman (04/20/06 4:20 PM) 

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OfflineSneezingPenis
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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: wrestler_az]
    #7511485 - 10/12/07 01:24 AM (16 years, 5 months ago)

I find that almost all poetry dealing with the self is a steaming heap of shit.

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Offlinewrestler_az
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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: SneezingPenis]
    #7511491 - 10/12/07 01:30 AM (16 years, 5 months ago)

Quote:

YawningAnus said:
I find that almost all poetry dealing with the self is a steaming heap of shit.




isnt that most poetry?

who the hell sits around writing poems that isnt a depressed self loathing my god how can i live this life type of a person? if they had any bit of a social life they wouldnt find themselves a poet...


--------------------
how's your WOW?





  Edited by yageman (04/20/06 4:20 PM) 

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OfflineSneezingPenis
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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: wrestler_az]
    #7511492 - 10/12/07 01:31 AM (16 years, 5 months ago)

yeah, it is most poetry, but there are some that arent entirely self absorbed.

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InvisibleNemo_Hoes
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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: SneezingPenis]
    #7511494 - 10/12/07 01:35 AM (16 years, 5 months ago)

Boy: Do it!
Girl: HARRRRRRRRRRRRR
Boy: I turn you around to lick your asshole.
Boy: I pry apart that battleship you call your ass.
Boy: I see shit nuggets hanging from the hair around your asshole.
Girl: WTF?!?!?
Boy: They stink really bad.
Girl: OMG STOP!!!
Boy: I start to get fed up with your ugly ass
Boy: I tear off your wooden peg leg.
Boy: I ram it up your ass.
Girl: YOURE A FUCKING PYSCHO!!
Boy: Then I pour hot carmel over your head.
Boy: And turn you into a fucking candy apple...
Boy: I kick you in the face!
Girl: FUCK YOU ASSHOLE!!
Boy: The celluloid from your cheeks hits the side of the cabin...
Boy: Your parrot flys away.
Boy: ...going limp again.
Boy: Hello?
Boy: Say it!
Boy: HAARRRRRR!!!!!


--------------------
We will also report to the NAACP and to Al Sharpton's entourage, how the Shroomery administrators allows their mods and members to be balatantly allowed the use of the 'N' word.

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Offlinewrestler_az
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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: SneezingPenis]
    #7511495 - 10/12/07 01:36 AM (16 years, 5 months ago)

like?

i dont mean to come across as an ass, im just curious...


--------------------
how's your WOW?





  Edited by yageman (04/20/06 4:20 PM) 

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OfflineSneezingPenis
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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: wrestler_az]
    #7511497 - 10/12/07 01:38 AM (16 years, 5 months ago)

carl sandburg
shell silverstein
Dr seuss
ogden nash

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Offlinewrestler_az
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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: Nemo_Hoes]
    #7511498 - 10/12/07 01:39 AM (16 years, 5 months ago)

Quote:

The Motherfuckin G said:
Boy: Do it!
Girl: HARRRRRRRRRRRRR
Boy: I turn you around to lick your asshole.
Boy: I pry apart that battleship you call your ass.
Boy: I see shit nuggets hanging from the hair around your asshole.
Girl: WTF?!?!?
Boy: They stink really bad.
Girl: OMG STOP!!!
Boy: I start to get fed up with your ugly ass
Boy: I tear off your wooden peg leg.
Boy: I ram it up your ass.
Girl: YOURE A FUCKING PYSCHO!!
Boy: Then I pour hot carmel over your head.
Boy: And turn you into a fucking candy apple...
Boy: I kick you in the face!
Girl: FUCK YOU ASSHOLE!!
Boy: The celluloid from your cheeks hits the side of the cabin...
Boy: Your parrot flys away.
Boy: ...going limp again.
Boy: Hello?
Boy: Say it!
Boy: HAARRRRRR!!!!!




thats from a series of chat sessions i remember reading...

5 shrooms to you if you can give me the link to the rest of them.

talk to me like a pirate when i go limp....


arrrrrg! :madpirate:


--------------------
how's your WOW?





  Edited by yageman (04/20/06 4:20 PM) 

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OfflineHyper_Panda_GO
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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: wrestler_az]
    #7511500 - 10/12/07 01:39 AM (16 years, 5 months ago)

Shel Silverstein
E.E. Cummings
Leonard Cohen (sort of)
Homer


--------------------
There is no valid reason you should be reading this

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InvisibleNemo_Hoes
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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: wrestler_az]
    #7511504 - 10/12/07 01:40 AM (16 years, 5 months ago)



--------------------
We will also report to the NAACP and to Al Sharpton's entourage, how the Shroomery administrators allows their mods and members to be balatantly allowed the use of the 'N' word.

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OfflineMiddleFinger
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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: SneezingPenis]
    #7511507 - 10/12/07 01:42 AM (16 years, 5 months ago)

Quote:

YawningAnus said:
yeah, it is most poetry, but there are some that arent entirely self absorbed.



I can see where you coming from.

However, some of the great poets find inspiration from the search for the self ( I don't consider Siken GREAT...yet.)

E.X. :

Keats
Yeats
Auden
Donne


--------------------
History says, Don't hope

On this side of the grave.

But then, once in a lifetime

The longed-for tidal wave

Of justice can rise up

And hope and history rhyme.

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OfflineSneezingPenis
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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: MiddleFinger]
    #7511513 - 10/12/07 01:48 AM (16 years, 5 months ago)

IMO, Tom Robbins is the greatest author.

he combines the best of both prose and poetry.

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Offlinewrestler_az
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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: SneezingPenis]
    #7511525 - 10/12/07 01:56 AM (16 years, 5 months ago)

Quote:

YawningAnus said:
carl sandburg
shell silverstein
Dr seuss
ogden nash




help me find those of shel silverstein that werernt so oriented towards the children, and ill give you 5 as well. i remember him writing some stuff that was quite out there... im really drunk and cant quite figure out the google. but i do remember reading a few of his that i liked very much...

i just cant find them...


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  Edited by yageman (04/20/06 4:20 PM) 

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OfflineSneezingPenis
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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: wrestler_az]
    #7511534 - 10/12/07 02:00 AM (16 years, 5 months ago)

actually, I cant recall any of his poems that arent for children, but here is one that is kind of cool

Forgotten Language by Shel Silverstein
Once I spoke the language of the flowers,
Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,
And shared a conversation with the housefly
in my bed.
Once I heard and answered all the questions
of the crickets,
And joined the crying of each falling dying
flake of snow,
Once I spoke the language of the flowers. . . .
How did it go?
How did it go?

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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: MiddleFinger]
    #7511540 - 10/12/07 02:05 AM (16 years, 5 months ago)

I do...now that I am in love.:heart::heart::heart:


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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: GonzoCool]
    #7511820 - 10/13/07 12:18 PM (16 years, 5 months ago)

I enjoy writing poetry a little more than I do reading it. The poems you posted were good. However, I must confess some of my work here at home is similar in the way he abstractly portrays certain emotions.

It gets my


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OfflineHyper_Panda_GO
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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: Apollyphelion]
    #7511860 - 10/13/07 12:36 PM (16 years, 5 months ago)

Poetry is incredibly fun to write, especially limmericks

There once was a druggist named Dan
Who was a very vein punctured man
With his dirty syringe
After a heroin binge
His brain simply turned into flan


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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: MiddleFinger]
    #7512029 - 10/13/07 01:21 PM (16 years, 5 months ago)

I'm a poet. I've written a bit and I've put to memory hours of it. I like to sit around campfires and tell poems, some of it my own and some of it others works. But I'm not a fan of the introspective, self-analyzing stuff. I like poems with plenty of rhyme and meter that tell stories, often with humor in them. Some Shroomerites have heard my stuff at gatherings and they'll confirm this.

The stuff posted above by this Siken fellow does nothing for me. I find it almost unreadable. I'm sure hes a fine poet, its just not my style. If you want to know what I like then read some of Robert Services works. I have bunches of his poems memorized, including some classics like "The Cremation of Sam McGee", "The Ballad of Salvation Bill" and "The Ballad of the Ice Worm Cocktail". I have also memorized a bit of Banjo Patterson, an Australian poet in the same vein as Robert Service who wrote "The Man from Snowy River" (which is one I've memorized). The first poem I ever put to memory was by Robert Frost when I was in the 4th grade. I attended Robert Frost Elementary School and had to do it for a school play. I've been doing it ever since.


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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: MiddleFinger]
    #7512143 - 10/13/07 01:50 PM (16 years, 5 months ago)

poetry is awesome :thumbup:


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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: Locus]
    #7512550 - 10/13/07 04:22 PM (16 years, 5 months ago)

Pablo Neruda!

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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: SneezingPenis]
    #7512798 - 10/13/07 05:20 PM (16 years, 5 months ago)

The Great Smoke Off, by shel silverstein

In the laid back California town of sunny San Rafael
Lived a girl named Pearly Sweetcake, you prob’ly knew her well.
She’d been stoned fifteen of her eighteen years and the story was widely told
That she could smoke 'em faster than anyone could roll.
Her legend finally reached New York, that Grove Street walk-up flat
Where dwelt The Calistoga Kid, a beatnik from the past
With long browned lightnin’ fingers he takes a cultured toke
And says, "Hell, I can roll ‘em faster, Jim, than any chick can smoke!"
So a note gets sent to San Rafael, "For the Championship of the World
The Kid demands a smoke off!" "Well, bring him on!" says Pearl,
"I'll grind his fingers off his hands, he'll roll until he drops!"
Says Calistog, "I'll smoke that chick till she blows up and pops!"
So they rent out Yankee Stadium and the word is quickly spread
"Come one, come all, who walk or crawl, tickets– just two lids a head
And from every town and hamlet, over land and sea they speed
The world's greatest dopers, with the Worlds greatest weed!
Hashishers from Morocco, hemp smokers from Peru
And the Shamnicks from Bagun who puff the deadly Pugaroo
And those who call it Light of Life and those that call it boo.
See the dealers and their ladies wearing turquoise, lace, and leather
See the narcos and the closet smokers puffin’ all together
From the teenies who smoke legal to the ones who've done some time
To the old man who smoked "reefer" back before it was a crime
And the grand old house that Ruth built is filled with the smoke and cries
Of fifty thousand screaming heads all stoned out of their minds.
And they play the national anthem and the crowd lets out a roar
As the spotlight hits The Kid and Pearl, ready for their smokin' war
At a table piled up high with grass, as high as a mountain peak
Just tops and buds of the rarest flowers, not one stem, branch or seed.
Maui Wowie, Panama Red and Acapulco Gold.
Kif from East Afghanistan and rare Alaskan Cold.
Sticks from Thailand, Ganja from the Islands, and Bangkok's Bloomin' Best.
And some of that wet imported shit that capsized off Key West.
Oaxacan tops and Kenya Bhang and Riviera Fleurs.
And that rare Manhatten Silver that grows down in the New York sewers.
And there's bubblin’ ice cold lemonade and sweet grapes by the bunches.
And there's Hershey’s bars, and Oreos, ‘case anybody gets the munchies.
And the Calistoga Kid, he sneers, and Pearley, she just grins.
And the drums roll low and the crowd yells "GO!" and the world’s first Smoke Off begins.
Kid flicks his magic fingers once and ZAP! that first joint’s rolled.
Pearl takes one drag with her mighty lungs and WOOSH! that roach is cold.
Then The Kid he rolls his Super Bomb that’d paralyze a moose.
And Pearley takes one super hit and SLURP! that bomb’ defused.
Then he rolls three in just ten seconds and she smokes 'em up in nine,
And everybody sits back and says, "This just might take some time."
See the blur of flyin’ fingers, see the red coal burnin’ bright
As the night turns into mornin’ and the mornin’ fades to night
And the autumn turns to summer and a whole damn year is gone
But the two still sit on that roach-filled stage, smokin' and rollin' on
With tremblin’ hands he rolls his jays with fingers blue and stiff
She coughs and stares with bloodshot gaze, and puffs through blistered lips.
And as she reaches out her hand for another stick of gold
The Kid he gasps, "Damn it, bitch, there's nothin' left to roll!"
"Nothin’ left to roll?", screams Pearl, "Is this some twisted joke?"
"I didn't come here to fuck around, man, I come here to SMOKE!"
And she reaches 'cross the table And grabs his bony sleeves
And she crumbles his body between her hands like dried and brittle leaves
Flickin' out his teeth and bones like useless stems and seeds
And then she rolls him in a Zig Zag and lights him like a roach.
And the fastest man with the fastest hands goes up in a puff of smoke.
In the laid-back California town of sunny San Rafael
Lives a girl named Pearly Sweetcake, you prob’ly know her well.
She’s been stoned twenty-one of her twenty-four years, and the story’s widely told.
How she still can smoke them faster than anyone can roll
While off in New York City on a street that has no name.
There's the hands of the Calistoga Kid in the Viper Hall of Fame
And underneath his fingers there's a little golden scroll
That says, Beware of Bein’ the Roller When There's Nothin’ Left to Roll.


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how's your WOW?





  Edited by yageman (04/20/06 4:20 PM) 

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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: wrestler_az]
    #7512837 - 10/13/07 05:32 PM (16 years, 5 months ago)

The Perfect High, by Shel Silverstein

There once was a boy named Gimmesome Roy. He was nothing like me or you.
'Cause laying back and getting high was all he cared to do.
As a kid, he sat in the cellar, sniffing airplane glue.
And then he smoked bananas -- which was then the thing to do.
He tried aspirin in Coca-Cola, breathed helium on the sly,
And his life was just one endless search to find that perfect high.
But grass just made him want to lay back and eat chocolate-chip pizza all night,
And the great things he wrote while he was stoned looked like shit in the morning light.
And speed just made him rap all day, reds just laid him back,
And Cocaine Rose was sweet to his nose, but the price nearly broke his back.
He tried PCP and THC, but they didn't quite do the trick,
And poppers nearly blew his heart and mushrooms made him sick.
Acid made him see the light, but he couldn't remember it long.
And hashish was just a little too weak, and smack was a lot too strong,
And Quaaludes made him stumble, and booze just made him cry,
Till he heard of a cat named Baba Fats who knew of the perfect high.

Now, Baba Fats was a hermit cat who lived up in Nepal,
High on a craggy mountaintop, up a sheer and icy wall.
"But hell," says Roy, "I'm a healthy boy, and I'll crawl or climb or fly,
But I'll find that guru who'll give me the clue as to what's the perfect high."
So out and off goes Gimmesome Roy to the land that knows no time,
Up a trail no man could conquer to a cliff no man could climb.
For fourteen years he tries that cliff, then back down again he slides
Then sits -- and cries -- and climbs again, pursuing the perfect high.
He's grinding his teeth, he's coughing blood, he's aching and shaking and weak,
As starving and sore and bleeding and tore, he reaches the mountain peak.
And his eyes blink red like a snow-blind wolf, and he snarls the snarl of a rat,
As there in perfect repose and wearing no clothes -- sits the godlike Baba Fats.

"What's happening, Fats?" says Roy with joy, "I've come to state my biz.
I hear you're hip to the perfect trip. Please tell me what it is.
For you can see," says Roy to he, "that I'm about to die,
So for my last ride, Fats, how can I achieve the perfect high?"
"Well, dog my cats!" says Baba Fats. "here's one more burnt-out soul,
Who's looking for some alchemist to turn his trip to gold.
But you won't find it in no dealer's stash, or on no druggist's shelf.
Son, if you would seek the perfect high -- find it in yourself."

"Why, you jive motherfucker!" screamed Gimmesome Roy, "I've climbed through rain and sleet,
I've lost three fingers off my hands and four toes off my feet!
I've braved the lair of the polar bear and tasted the maggot's kiss.
Now, you tell me the high is in myself. What kind of shit is this?
My ears 'fore they froze off," says Roy, "had heard all kind of crap,
But I didn't climb for fourteen years to listen to that sophomore rap.
And I didn't crawl up here to hear that the high is on the natch,
So you tell me where the real stuff is or I'll kill your guru ass!"

"Ok, OK," says Baba Fats, "you're forcing it out of me.
There is a land beyond the sun that's known as Zaboli.
A wretched land of stone and sand where snakes and buzzards scream,
And in this devil's garden blooms the mystic Tzu-Tzu tree.
And every ten years it blooms one flower as white as the Key West sky,
And he who eats of the Tzu-Tzu flower will know the perfect high.
For the rush comes on like a tidal wave and it hits like the blazing sun.
And the high, it lasts a lifetime and the down don't ever come.
But the Zaboli land is ruled by a giant who stands twelve cubits high.
With eyes of red in his hundred heads, he waits for the passers-by.
And you must slay the red-eyed giant, and swim the River of Slime,
Where the mucous beasts, they wait to feast on those who journey by.
And if you survive the giant and the beasts and swim that slimy sea,
There's a blood-drinking witch who sharpens her teeth as she guards that Tzu-Tzu tree."
"To hell with your witches and giants," laughs Roy. "To hell with the beasts of the sea.
As long as the Tzu-Tzu flower blooms, some hope still blooms for me."
And with tears of joy in his snow-blind eye, Roy hands the guru a five,
Then back down the icy mountain he crawls, pursuing that perfect high.

"Well, that is that," says Baba Fats, sitting back down on his stone,
Facing another thousand years of talking to God alone.
"It seems, Lord", says Fats, "it's always the same, old men or bright-eyed youth,
It's always easier to sell them some shit than it is to give them the truth.


--------------------
how's your WOW?





  Edited by yageman (04/20/06 4:20 PM) 

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