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+--- Thread: Favorite poetry/prose? (/showthread.php?tid=1423)
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- Danked - 04-25-2002
Old Western Movies
A jedge in the West comin from the South
with ruby sideburns, boy -
Always usin flowery languij -
The grim fightin hero's troubles
are always private -
He wants to know where "I fit in"
in herd wars -
Sometimes you see villains so ancient
you saw them in infancy
exaggerating in snow
their mustaches looking older
than yr father's grave -
"Thanks Marshall" - "I reckon" -
- I guess I better run on back
to Whisky Row, Colorada,
& marry an old Tim McCoy Gal
or turn off the tele vision, one -
- You gotta go a long way in the West
to find a good man -
So close the book,
The Courier, run by Steve, is a paper
wearing a sunbonnet.
Drive the cattle thru that silver wall,
help ladies to their hearse,
mouth in the sun,
That oughta do till Mexican Drygulcher
finds Redwing in the Shack
And Kwakiutls menstruate.
Old horses' necks by broken fences,
guns gone rust,
I guess the gang got shot.
Kid Dream
Hid
In the leaves
April 1958, Northport
Jack Kerouac
- GonzoStyle - 04-25-2002
IO'm really not into any of the modern era poets but there is one poem that always stuck out for me. My favorite poets are Poe, Shakespeare, Byron, and others but here's one more recent. The final part to Jim Morrisons "An American Prayer" which is called "The Severed Garden".
An American Prayer
By Jim Morrison
'The Severed Garden'.
Wow, I'm sick of doubt
Live in the light of certain South
Cruel bindings
The servants have the power
dog-men & their mean women
pulling poor blankets over
our sailors
(& where were you in our lean hour)
Milking your moustache?
or grinding a flower?
I'm sick of dour faces
Staring at me from the T.V.
Tower. I want roses in
my garden bower; dig?
Royal babies, rubies
must now replace aborted
Strangers in the mud
These mutants, blood-meal
for the plant that's plowed
They are waiting to take us into
the severed garden
Do you know how pale & wanton thrillful
comes death on strange hour
unannounced, unplanned for
like a scaring over-friendly guest you've
brought to bed
Death makes angels of us all
& gives us wings
where we had shoulders
smooth as raven's claws
No more money, no more fancy dress
This other Kingdom seems by far the best
until its other jaw reveals incest
& loose obedience to a vegetable law
I will not go
Prefer a Feast of Friends
To the Giant family
- Danked - 04-26-2002
Première soirée
- Elle était fort déshabillée
Et de grands arbres indiscrets
Aux vitres jetaient leur feuillée
Malinement, tout près, tout près.
Assise sur ma grande chaise,
Mi-nue, elle joignait les mains.
Sur le plancher frissonnaient d'aise
Ses petits pieds si fins, si fins.
- Je regardai, couleur de cire,
Un petit rayon buissonnier
Papillonner dans son sourire
Et sur son sein, - mouche au rosier.
- Je baisai ses fines chevilles.
Elle eut un doux rire brutal
Qui s'égrenait en claires trilles,
Un joli rire de cristal.
Les petits pieds sous la chemise
Se sauvèrent : " Veux-tu finir ! "
- La première audace permise,
Le rire feignait de punir !
- Pauvrets palpitants sous ma lèvre,
Je baisai doucement ses yeux :
- Elle jeta sa tête mièvre
En arrière : " Oh ! c'est encor mieux !...
Monsieur, j'ai deux mots à te dire... "
- Je lui jetai le reste au sein
Dans un baiser, qui la fit rire
D'un bon rire qui voulait bien...
- Elle était fort déshabillée
Et de grands arbres indiscrets
Aux vitres jetaient leur feuillée
Malinement, tout près, tout près.
- Arthur Rimbaud
The First Evening
She was very much half-dressed,
And big indiscreet trees
Threw out their leaves against the pane:
Cunningly, and close, quite close.
Sitting half-naked in my big easy chair,
She clasped her hands.
Her small and so delicate feet
Trembled with pleasure on the floor.
The coloUr of wax, I watched
A little wild ray of light flutter
From her smiling lips
To her breast-an insect on the rose bush.
I kissed her delicate ankles.
She laughed softly and suddenly,
A string of clear trills,
A lovely laugh f crystal.
Her small feet ducked under her chemise;
'Will you please stop it!...'
- The first act of daring permitted,
Her laugh pretended to punish me!
Softly I kissed her eyes
- Trembling beneath my lips, poor things
- She threw back her fragile head:
'Oh, really! That's going too far!'
'My dear, I'm warning you...'
I transferred the rest to her breast
In a kiss which made her laugh-
A laugh that wanted more than this...
She was very much half-dressed,
And big indiscreet trees
Threw out their leaves against the pane:
Cunningly, and close, quite close.
- Arthur Rimbaud
- 2 tired 2 give N F - 04-26-2002
I've got so many. But here's one that's on the top of the list.
When I have fears that I may cease to be
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain,
Before high piled books, in charact’ry,
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen’d grain;
When I behold, upon the night’s starr’d face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love!—then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
--Keats
- Wormface - 04-26-2002
I aint one for poetry..
- Spitfire - 04-26-2002
I love poetry, I'll post a bunch....
More About People
by Ogden Nash
When people aren't asking question
They're making suggestions
And when they're not doing one of those
They're either looking over your shoulder or stepping on your toes
And then as if that weren't enough to annoy you
They employ you.
Anybody at leisure
Incurs everybody's displeasure.
It seems to be very irking
To people at work to see other people not working,
So they tell you that work is wonderful medicine,
Just look at Firestone and Ford and Edison,
And they lecture you till they're out of breath or something
And then if you don't succumb they starve you to death or something.
All of which results in a nasty quirk:
That if you don't want to work you have to work to earn enough money so that you won't have to work.
- Spitfire - 04-26-2002
Shel Silverstein poems (and he doesn't just write kids' poems)
Red-Neck Hippie Romance
They say a Red-Neck and a Hippie should never get married
But we just laughed and done it anyway.
For a while life was fine...cause your life's so different from mine
But now it seems we both just ain't got very much to say.
'Cause I realize you'll never love Hank Williams
And I don't like the Rolling Stones a bit.
And all my friends have short hair and smoke "Lucky's"
And all your friends have long hair and smoke "shit"
So go and roll yourself another reefer
And I'll go pour myself another beer
And please don't ask me why, we can't give it one more try.
'Cause I'm too drunk to tell you, babe...and you're too stoned to hear.
I like to dress up and look just like a rich man
And you like wearin' jeans and lookin' poor.
And I like dancin' slow, where the "Schlitts" and memories flow
And I like to drink my coke and you like sniffin' yours.
===============================================================
The Smoke Off
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 twist 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, price – 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, "Goddamn 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.
======================================================================
BOA CONSTRICTOR
I'm being eaten by a Boa Constrictor,
A Boa Constrictor,
A Boa Constrictor.
I'm being eaten by a Boa Constrictor,
And I don't like it one bit.
Whadaya know, it's nibblin' my toe.
Oh gee, it's up to my knee.
Oh fiddle, it's up to my middle.
Oh heck, it's up to my neck.
Oh dread, it's mm-mm-mm-mm...
- Danked - 05-31-2002
Quote:BOA CONSTRICTOR
Nice. That was always one of my favorites! :-D
<div align="center">Excerpt from Visions of Cody</div>
Have you ever seen anyone like Cody Pomeray?- say on a street corner on a winter night in Chicago, or better, Fargo, any mighty cold town, a young guy with a bony face that looks like it's been pressed against iron bars to get that dogged rocky look of suffering, perseverance, finally when you look closest, happy prim self-belief, with Western side-burns and big blue flirtatious eyes of an old maid and fluttering lashes; the small and muscular kind of fellow wearing usually a leather jacket and if it's a suit with a vest so he can prop his thick busy thumbs in place and smile the smile of his grandfathers; who walks as fast as he can go on the balls of his feet, talking excitedly and gesticulating; poor pitiful kid actually just out of reform school with no money, no mother, and if you saw him dead on the sidewalk with a cop standing over him you'd walk on in a hurry, in silence. Oh life, who is that? There are some young men you look at who seem completely safe, maybe just because of a Scandinavian ski sweater, angelic, saved; on a Cody Pomeray it immediately becomes a dirty stolen sweater worn in wild sweats. Something about his tigerish out-jutted raw facebone could be given a woe-down melancholy if he only wore a drooping mustache (a famous bop drummer who looked just like Cody at this time wore such a mustache and probably for these reasons). It is a face that's so suspicious, so energetically upward-looking like people in passport photos, so rigidly itself, looking like it's about to do anything unspeakably enthusiastic, in fact so much the opposite of the rosy Coke-drinking boy in the Scandinavian ski sweater ad, that in front of a brick wall where it says Post No Bills and it's too dirty fir a rosy boy ad and you can imagine Cody standing there in the raw gray flesh manacled between sheriffs and Assistant D.A.'s and you wouldn't have to ask yourself who is the culprit and who is the law. He looked like that, and God bless him he looked like that Hollywood stunt man who is fist fighting in place of the hero and has such a remote, furious, anonymous viciousness (one of the loneliest things in the world to see and we've all seen it a thousand times in a thousand B-movies) that everybody begins to be suspicious because they know the hero wouldn't really act like that in real unreality. If you've been a boy and played on dumps you've seen Cody, all crazy, excited and full of glee-mad powers, giggling with the pimply girls in back of fenders and weeds till some vocational school swallows his ragged blisses and that strange American iron which later is used to mold the suffering manface is now employed to straighten and quell the long wavering spermy disorderliness of the boy. Nevertheless the face of a great hero - a face to remind you tha the infant springs from the great Assyrian bush of a man, not from an eye, an ear or a forehead - the face of a Simon Bolivar, Robert E. Lee, young Whitman, young Melville, a statue in the park, rough and free.
<div align="right">Jack Kerouac</div>
- Danked - 01-30-2003
Hap
If but some vengeful god would call to me
From up the sky, and laugh: "Thou suffering thing,
Know that thy sorrow is my ecstasy,
That thy love's loss is my hate's profiting!"
Then would I bear it, clench myself, and die,
Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited;
Half-eased in that a Powerfuller than I
Had willed and meted me the tears I shed.
But not so. How arrives it joy lies slain,
And why unblooms the best hope ever sown?
-Crass Casualty obstructs the sun and rain,
And dicing Time for gladness casts a mown...
These purblind Doomsters had as readily strown
Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain.
-Thomas Hardy
- Danked - 01-30-2003
Excerpt from Trainspotting
The sweat wis lashing oafay Sick Boy; he wis trembling. Ah wis jist sitting thair, focusing oan the telly, tryin no tae notice the cunt. He wis bringing me doon. Ah tried tae keep ma attention oan the Jean-Claude Van Damme video.
As happens in such movies, they started oaf wi an obligatory dramatic opening. Then the next phase ay the picture involved building up the tension through introducing the dastardly villain and sticking the weak plot thegither. Any minute now though, auld Jean-Claude's ready tae git doon tae some serious swedgin.
-Rents. Ah've goat tae see Mother Superior, Sick Boy gasped, shaking his heid.
-Aw, ah sais. Ah wanted the radge tae jist fuck off ootay ma visage, tae go oan his ain, n jist leave us wi Jean-Claude. Oan the other hand, ah'd be gitting sick tae before long, and if that cunt went n scored, he'd haud oot oan us. They call um Sick Boy, no because he's eywis sick wi junk withdrawal, but because he's just one sick cunt.
-Let's fuckin go, he snapped desperately.
-Haud oan a second. Ah wanted tae see Jean-Claude smash up this arrogant fucker. If we went now, ah wouldnae got tae watch it. Ah'd be too fucked up by the time we goat back, and in any case it wid probably be a few days later. That meant ah'd git hit fir fuckin back charges fi the shoap oan a video ah hudnae even goat a deck at.
-Ah've goat tae fuckin move man! he shouts, standing up. He moves ower tae the windae and rests against it, breathing heavily, looking like a hunted animal. There's nothing in his eyes but need.
Ah switched the box oaf at the handset. -Fuckin waste. That's aw it is, a fuckin waste, ah snarled at the cunt, the fuckin irritating bastard.
He flings back his heid n raise his eyes tae the ceiling. -Ah'll gie ye the money tae git it back oot. Is that aw yir sae fuckin moosey-faced aboot? Fifty measly fuckin pence ootay Ritz!
This cunt has a wey ay makin ye feel a real petty, trivial bastard.
-That's no the fuckin point, ah sais, but with oot conviction.
-Aye. The point is ah'm really fuckin sufferin here, n ma so called mate's draggin his feet deliberately, lovin every fuckin minute ay it! His eyes seem the size ay fitba's n look hostile, yet pleadin at the same time; poignant testimonies tae ma supposed betrayal. If ah ever live long enough tae huv a bairn, ah hope it never looks at us like Sick Boy does. The cunt is irresistible oan this form.
-Ah wisnae.... ah protested.
-Fling yir fuckin jaykit oan well!
-Irvine Welsh
- Arpikarhu - 01-30-2003
10 bucks says nobody is reading these poems. just posting them
- Danked - 01-30-2003
You lose, pay up.
I've read them all.
- SBB - 01-30-2003
There once was a guy from Nantucket
Whose dick was so long he could suck it
He exclaimed with a grin
As he wiped off his chin
If my ear was a cunt, I'd fuck it
- Danked - 01-30-2003
Hey, it counts. :thumbs-up:
- snowballschanceinhell - 01-31-2003
Gonzo The Severed Garden is great.. I would like to post one from An American Prayer also.
BLACK POLISHED CHROME (Latino Chrome.)
The music was new
black polished chrome
And came over the summer
like liquid night.
The DJ's took pills to stay awake
and play for seven days
They went to the studio
And someone knew him
Someone knew the TV showman
He came to our homeroom party
and played records
And when he left in the hot noon sun
and walked to his car
We saw the chooks had written
F-U-C-K on his windshield
He wiped it off with a rag
and smiling cooly drove away
He's rich. Got a big car.
My gang will get you
Scenes of rape in the arroyo
Seduction in cars, abandoned buildings
Fights at the food stand
The dust
the shoes
Open shirts and raised collars
Bright sculptured hair.
Hey man, you want girls, pills, grass? C'mon...
I show you good time.
This place has everything. C'mon...
I show you.
- FNMoron - 01-31-2003
good gravy... :crackhead:
Danked.... i'll hold you personally responsible if she starts cybering with Dent again :poke:
- PollyannaFlower46 - 01-31-2003
I can't find it in the book to post it right now, but there's a part of Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman, all about how he's not afraid to die because his decomposing body will give new life to the earth, and when I find it I'll post it, because it was the first thing that didn't make me scared to die.
- fbd - 01-31-2003
that was "the song of myself", right? that was a really good poem...but really long
- PollyannaFlower46 - 01-31-2003
Yea, I think so, I have it all marked up in the book that I own, but I'm not about to go dig it out right now.
- LyricalGomez - 01-31-2003
Did you hear about the rose that grew from a crack in the concrete?
Proving nature's law is wrong it learned to walk with out having feet.
Funny it seems, but by keeping it's dreams, it learned to breathe fresh air.
Long live the rose that grew from concrete when no one else ever cared.
by Tupac Shakur