post yr favorite poem...

[content]

right here...

[content]

And then went down to the ship,
Set keel to breakers, forth on the godly sea, and
We set up mast and sail on that swart ship,
Bore sheep aboard her, and our bodies also
Heavy with weeping, and winds from sternward
Bore us onward with bellying canvas,
Crice's this craft, the trim-coifed goddess.
Then sat we amidships, wind jamming the tiller,
Thus with stretched sail, we went over sea till day's end.
Sun to his slumber, shadows o'er all the ocean,
Came we then to the bounds of deepest water,
To the Kimmerian lands, and peopled cities
Covered with close-webbed mist, unpierced ever
With glitter of sun-rays
Nor with stars stretched, nor looking back from heaven
Swartest night stretched over wreteched men there.
The ocean flowing backward, came we then to the place
Aforesaid by Circe.
Here did they rites, Perimedes and Eurylochus,
And drawing sword from my hip
I dug the ell-square pitkin;
Poured we libations unto each the dead,
First mead and then sweet wine, water mixed with white flour
Then prayed I many a prayer to the sickly death's-heads;
As set in Ithaca, sterile bulls of the best
For sacrifice, heaping the pyre with goods,
A sheep to Tiresias only, black and a bell-sheep.
Dark blood flowed in the fosse,
Souls out of Erebus, cadaverous dead, of brides
Of youths and of the old who had borne much;
Souls stained with recent tears, girls tender,
Men many, mauled with bronze lance heads,
Battle spoil, bearing yet dreory arms,
These many crowded about me; with shouting,
Pallor upon me, cried to my men for more beasts;
Slaughtered the herds, sheep slain of bronze;
Poured ointment, cried to the gods,
To Pluto the strong, and praised Proserpine;
Unsheathed the narrow sword,
I sat to keep off the impetuous impotent dead,
Till I should hear Tiresias.
But first Elpenor came, our friend Elpenor,
Unburied, cast on the wide earth,
Limbs that we left in the house of Circe,
Unwept, unwrapped in the sepulchre, since toils urged other.
Pitiful spirit. And I cried in hurried speech:
"Elpenor, how art thou come to this dark coast?
"Cam'st thou afoot, outstripping seamen?"
And he in heavy speech:
"Ill fate and abundant wine. I slept in Crice's ingle.
"Going down the long ladder unguarded,
"I fell against the buttress,
"Shattered the nape-nerve, the soul sought Avernus.
"But thou, O King, I bid remember me, unwept, unburied,
"Heap up mine arms, be tomb by sea-bord, and inscribed:
"A man of no fortune, and with a name to come.
"And set my oar up, that I swung mid fellows."

And Anticlea came, whom I beat off, and then Tiresias Theban,
Holding his golden wand, knew me, and spoke first:
"A second time? why? man of ill star,
"Facing the sunless dead and this joyless region?
"Stand from the fosse, leave me my bloody bever
"For soothsay."
And I stepped back,
And he strong with the blood, said then: "Odysseus
"Shalt return through spiteful Neptune, over dark seas,
"Lose all companions." Then Anticlea came.
Lie quiet Divus. I mean, that is Andreas Divus,
In officina Wecheli, 1538, out of Homer.
And he sailed, by Sirens and thence outwards and away
And unto Crice.
Venerandam,
In the Cretan's phrase, with the golden crown, Aphrodite,
Cypri munimenta sortita est, mirthful, oricalchi, with golden
Girdle and breat bands, thou with dark eyelids
Bearing the golden bough of Argicidia. So that:

[terminal viscosity]

i knew a girl from amsterdam



she stuffed her cunt up full of clams

[Jeniffer Mills]

Originally posted by terminal viscosity
i knew a girl from amsterdam



she stuffed her cunt up full of clams

Now that has style! Breathtaking lyric man!! hahahaha...

[Paddy]

Dulce Et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

[Paddy]

i like the ancient mariner as well, but it might be a shade long to post on the board.

[content]

water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink.


dead albatross

fog

[Sheridan]

great topic content!

Henry Reed

NAMING OF PARTS

To-day we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And to-morrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But to-day,
To-day we have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens,
And to-day we have naming of parts.

This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.

This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their finger.

And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
They call it easing the Spring.

They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
For to-day we have naming of parts.




I came across this one in an english book I had in high school.
it has always been one of my favorites.

[hektor ruiez]

Yeah
Motherfuckers better know... huh, huh
Lock your windows, close your doors
huh... yeah



My man Inf left a Tec and a nine at my crib
Turned himself in, he had to do a bid
A one-to-three, he be home the end of '93
I'm ready to get this paper, G, you with me?
Motherfucking right, my pocket's looking kind of tight
and I'm stressed, yo Biggie let me get the vest
No need for that, just grab the fucking gat
The first pocket that's fat the Tec is to his back
Word is bond, I'm a smoke him yo don't fake no moves (what?)
Treat it like boxing: stick and move, stick and move
Nigga, you ain't got to explain shit
I've been robbin motherfuckers since the slave ships
with the same clip and the same four-five
Two point-blank, a motherfucker's sure to die
That's my word, nigga even try to bogart
have his mother singing "It's so hard..."
Yes Love, love your fucking attitude
because the nigga play pussy that's the nigga that's getting screwed
and bruised up from the pistol whipping
welts on the neck from the necklace stripping
Then I'm dipping up the block and I'm robbing bitches too
up the herring bones and bamboos
I wouldn't give fuck if you're pregnant
Give me the baby rings and a #1 MOM pendant
I'm slamming niggaz like Shaquille, shit is real
When it's time to eat a meal I rob and steal
cause Mom Duke ain't giving me shit
so for the bread and butter I leave niggaz in the gutter
Huh, word to mother, I'm dangerous
Crazier than a bag of fucking Angel Dust
When I bust my gat motherfuckers take dirt naps
I'm all that and a dime sack, where the paper at?


Gimme the loot, gimme the loot


Big up, big up, it's a stick up, stick up
and I'm shooting niggaz quick if you hiccup
Don't let me fill my clip up in your back and head piece
The opposite of peace sending Mom Duke a wreath
You're talking to the robbery expert
Stepping to your wake with your blood on my shirt
Don't be a jerk and get smoked over being resistant
cause when I lick shots the shits is persistent
Huh, goodness gracious the papers
Where the cash at? Where the stash at?
Nigga, pass that before you get your grave dug
from the main thug, .357 slug
And my nigga Biggie got an itchy one grip
One in the chamber, 32 in the clip
Motherfuckers better strip, yeah nigga peel
before you find out how blue steel feel
from the Beretta, putting all the holes in your sweater
The money getter motherfuckers don't have better
Rolex watches and colourful Swatches
I'm digging in pockets, motherfuckers can't stop it
Man, niggaz come through I'm taking high school rings too
Bitches get *strangled* for they earrings and bangles
and when I rock her and drop her I'm taking her door knockers
And if she's resistant "baka! baka! baka!"
So go get your man bitch he can get robbed too
Tell him Biggie took it, what the fuck he gonna do?
I hope apologetic or I'm a have to set it
and if I set it the cocksucker won't forget it
(*sample* "But he's sticking you, and taking all of your money..")

Gimme the loot, gimme the loot



Man, listen all this walking is hurting my feet
But money looks sweet (where at?) in the Isuzu jeep
Man, I throw him in the Beem, you grab the fucking C.R.E.A.M
and if he start to scream "bam! bam!", have a nice dream
Hold up, he got a fucking bitch in the car
Fur coats and diamonds, she thinks she a superstar
Ooh Biggie, let me jack her, I kick her in the back
Hit her with the gat...
Yo chill, Shorty, let me do that
Just get the fucking car keys and cruise up the block
The bitch act shocked, gettin shot on the spot
(Oh shit! The cops!) Be cool, fool
They ain't gonna roll up, all they want is fucking doughnuts
(So why the fuck he keep lookin?) I guess to get his life tooken
I just came home, ain't trying to see Central Booking
Oh shit, now he lookin in my face
You better haul ass cause I ain't with no fucking chase
So lace up your boots, cause I'm about to shoot
A true motherfucker going out for the loot

[shuttlecart]

His smile is like a cold toilet seat.
He shakes my hand as if he's found it
floating two weeks dead in a slough.
I tell him I need money.
Tons of it.
I want to buy a new Lambourghini,
load it with absinthe and opium,
and hit the trail out of these rainy hills
for a few years in Paris.
I try to explain
I'm at that point in my artistic development
where I require a long period
of opulent reflection.

The banker rifles my wallet.
Examines my mouth.
Chuckles when I offer 20 Miltonic sonnets
as security on the loan.
Now he's shaking his head, my confidence,
my hand goodbye. "Wait" I plead,
"I have debts and dreams
my present cash flow can't possibly sustain."
"Sorry," he mumbles, "nothing I can do,"
and staples some papers
in a way that makes me feel
he'd rather nail my tongue to an ant hill.
I stare at him in disbelief.

And under the righteous scathing of my gaze
the banker begins to change form.
First, he becomes a plate of cold french fries
drenched in crank case oil.
Then a black spot
on a page of Genesis
Finally, a dung beetle,
rolling little balls of shit
across a desk bigger than my kitchen.

Yet even as I follow these morbid transformations
I never lose sight of his bloated face,
the green, handled skin
shining like rotten meat.

But then his other faces
open to mine:
father, lover, young man, child-
our shared human history
folding us into one.
And only that stops me
from beating him senseless
with a sock full of pennies.

[JE:5]

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time --
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off the beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine,
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You --

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.

If I've killed one man, I've killed two --
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.

[Spandex]

@shuttlecart.. love that banker one.

Here's one from our fridge, a combined effort from me n my girlfriend:-

Happy woman, beautiful spirit
Magic spine, haunted crack.
Evil man, laughing villain.
But they explode
Like curly human bacon

[shuttlecart]

Originally posted by Spandex





Magic spine, haunted crack.


i like that...

the banker's by jim dodge btw..well worth a look

[WestcountryShakedown]

------------
It had been four days of no weather
as if nature had conceded its genius to the indoors.

They'd closed down the Bureau of Sad Endings
and my wife sat on the couch and read the paper out loud.

The evening edition carried the magic death of a child
backlit by a construction site sunrise on its front page.

I kept my back to her and fingered the items on the mantle.

Souvenirs only reminded you of buying them.

* * *

The moon hung solid over the boarded-up Hobby Shop.

P.K. was in the precinct house, using his one phone call
to dedicate a song to Tammy, for she was the light
by which he traveled into this and that

And out in the city, out in the wide readership,
his younger brother was kicking an ice bucket
in the woods behind the Marriott,

his younger brother who was missing that part of the brain
that allows you to make out with your pillow.

Poor kid.

It was the light in things that made them last.

* * *

Tammy called her caseworker from a closed gas station
to relay ideas unaligned with the world we loved.

The tall grass bent in the wind like tachometer needles
and he told her to hang in there, slowly repeating
the number of the Job Info Line.

She hung up and glared at the Killbuck Sweet Shoppe.
The words that had been running through her head,
"employees must wash hands before returning to work,"
kept repeating and the sky looked dead.

* * *

Hedges formed the long limousine a Tampa sky could die behind.
A sailor stood on the wharf with a clipper ship
reflected on the skin of the bell pepper he held.

He'd had mouthwash at the inn and could still feel the ice blue carbon pinwheels spinning in his mouth.

There were no new ways to understand the world,
only new days to set our understandings against.

Through the lanes came virgins in tennis shoes,
their hair shining like videotape,

singing us into a kind of sleep we hadn't tried yet.

Each page was a new chance to understand the last.

And somehow the sea was always there to make you feel stupid.
----------------------

[Jeniffer Mills]

...I first read "post your favorite porn" lol

[gunjack]

well bukowski is my fav. here is one for you lot:


16-bit Intel 8088 chip


with an Apple Macintosh
you can't run Radio Shack programs
in its disc drive.
nor can a Commodore 64
drive read a file
you have created on an
IBM Personal Computer.
both Kaypro and Osborne computers use
the CP/M operating system
but can't read each other's
handwriting
for they format (write
on) discs in different
ways.
the Tandy 2000 runs MS-DOS but
can't use most programs produced for
the IBM Personal Computer
unless certain
bits and bytes are
altered
but the wind still blows over
Savannah
and in the Spring
the turkey buzzard struts and
flounces before his
hens.

Charles Bukowski

[gunjack]

Consummation Of Grief


I even hear the mountains
the way they laugh
up and down their blue sides
and down in the water
the fish cry
and the water
is their tears.
I listen to the water
on nights I drink away
and the sadness becomes so great
I hear it in my clock
it becomes knobs upon my dresser
it becomes paper on the floor
it becomes a shoehorn
a laundry ticket
it becomes
cigarette smoke
climbing a chapel of dark vines. . .
it matters little
very little love is not so bad
or very little life
what counts
is waiting on walls
I was born for this
I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead.

Charles Bukowski

[Whuffle]

Prayer before Birth

I am not yet born; O hear me.
Let not the bloodsucking bat or the rat or the stoat or the
club-footed ghoul come near me.

I am not yet born, console me.
I fear that the human race may with tall walls wall me,
with strong drugs dope me, with wise lies lure me,
on black racks rack me, in blood-baths roll me.

I am not yet born; provide me
With water to dandle me, grass to grow for me, trees to talk
to me, sky to sing to me, birds and a white light
in the back of my mind to guide me.

I am not yet born; forgive me
For the sins that in me the world shall commit, my words
when they speak to me, my thoughts when they think me,
my treason engendered by traitors beyond me,
my life when they murder by means of my
hands, my death when they live me.

I am not yet born; rehearse me
In the parts I must play and the cues I must take when
old men lecture me, bureaucrats hector me, mountains
frown at me, lovers laugh at me, the white
waves call me to folly and the desert calls
me to doom and the beggar refuses
my gift and my children curse me.

I am not yet born; O hear me,
Let not the man who is beast or who thinks he is God
come near me.

I am not yet born; O fill me
With strength against those who would freeze my
humanity, would dragoon me into a lethal automaton,
would make me a cog in a machine, a thing with
one face, a thing, and against all those
who would dissipate my entirety, would
blow me like thistledown hither and
thither or hither and thither
like water held in the
hands would spill me.

Let them not make me a stone and let them not spill me.
Otherwise kill me.

-- Louis MacNeice (1907-1963)

[Paddy]

*bump

he game of chess, is like a swordfight
You must think first, before you move
Toad style is immensely strong, and immune to nearly any weapon
When it's properly used, it's almost invincible

Raw I'ma give it to ya, with no trivia
Raw like cocaine straight from Bolivia
My hip-hop will rock and shock the nation
like the Emancipation Proclamation
Weak MC's approach with slang that's dead
you might as well run into the wall and bang your head
I'm pushin' force, my force your doubtin'
I'm makin' devils cower to the Caucus Mountains

Well I'm a sire, I set the microphone on fire
Rap styles vary, and carry like Mariah
I come from the Shaolin slum, and the isle I'm from
is comin through with nuff niggaz, and nuff guns
so if you wanna come sweatin, stressin contestin
you'll catch a sharp sword to the midsection
Don't talk the talk, if you can't walk the walk
Phony niggaz are outlined in chalk
A man vexed, is what the projects made me
Rebel to the grain there's no way to barricade me
Steamrollin niggaz like a eighteen wheeler
with the drunk driver drivin, there's no survivin

Ruff like Timberland wear, yeah
Me and the Clan, and yo the Landcruisers out there
Peace to all the crooks, all the niggaz with bad looks
Bald heads, braids, blow this hook
We got chrome tecs, nickel plated macs
Black axe, drug dealin styles in phat stacks
I only been a good nigga for a minute though
cuz I got to get my props, and win it yo
I got beef wit commercial-ass niggaz with gold teeth
lampin in a Lexus eatin beef
Straight up and down don't even bother
I got fourty niggaz up in here now, who kill niggaz fathers

My peoples are you with me where you at?
In the front, in the back killa-bees on attack
my peoples are you with me where you at?
Smokin meth hittin caps on the block with the gats

Here I go, deep type flow
Jacque Cousteau could never get this low..I'm
cherry bombin shits... BOOM
Just warmin up a little bit, vroom vroom
Rappinin is what's happenin
Keep the pockets stacked and then, hands clappin and
At the party when I move my body
Gotta get up, and be-eeeee somebody!
Grab the microphone put strength to the bone
DUH-DUH-DUH...enter the Wu-Tang zone
Sure enough when I rock that stuff
Guff puff?? I'm gonna catch your bluff tuff
rough, kickin rhymes like Jim Kelly
or Alex Haley im a Mi-..Beetle Bailey rhymes
comin raw style, hardcore
Niggaz be comin to the hip-hop store
Comin to buy gro-cery from me
Tryin to be a hip-hop MC
The law, in order to enter the Wu-Tang
You must bring the Ol' Dirty Bastard type slang
Represent the GZA, Abbott, RZA, Shaquan, Inspectah Deck
Dirty Hoe gettin low wit his flow
Introducin, the Ghost..face.. Killah!!
No one could get illa

Speakin of the devil psych, no it's the God, get the shit right
Mega trife, and yo I killed you in a past life
On the mic while you was kickin that fast shit
You reneged tried again, and got blasted
Half mastered ass style mad ruff task
When I struck I had on Timbs and a black mask
Remember that shit? I know you don't remember jack
That night yo I wuz hittin like a spiked bat
and then you thought I was bugged out, and crazy
strapped for nonsense, after me became lazy
Yo, nobody budge while I shot slugs
Never shot thugs, I'm runnin with thugs that flood mugs
So grab your eight plus one, start flippin and trippin
Niggaz is jettin I'm lickin off son

(Wu, Tang, Wu, Tang, Wu, Tang, Wu, Tang!!!!)

Homicide's illegal and death is the penalty
What justifies the homicide, when he dies?
In his own iniquity it's the
Master of the Mantis Rapture comin at cha
We have an APB on an MC Killer
Looks like the work of a Master
Evidence indicates that's it's stature
Merciless like a terrorist hard to capture
The flow, changes like a chameleon
Plays like a friend, and stabs you like a dagger
This technique attacks the immune system
Disguised like a lie paralyzin the victim
You scream, as it enters your bloodstream
Erupts your brain from the pain these thoughts contain
movin on a nigga with the speed of a centipede
and injure - ANY MOTHERFUCKIN CONTENDER....



if you don't know what this is you should kill yourself.

[Sway]

sorry, german :)

both are kind of trashy but i like them somehow...

Als er der Phillis einen Ring mit einem Totenkopf überreichte

Erschrick nicht vor dem Liebeszeichen,
Es träget unser künftig Bild,
Vor dem nur die allein erbleichen,
Bei welchen die Vernunft nichts gilt.
Wie schickt sich aber Eis und Flammen?
Wie reimt sich Lieb' und Tod zusammen?
Es schickt und reimt sich gar zu schön,
Denn beide sind von gleicher Stärke
Und spielen ihre Wunderwerke
Mit allen, die auf Erden gehn.


Ich gebe dir dies Pfand zur Lehre:
Das Gold bedeutet feste Treu',
Der Ring, daß uns die Zeit verehre,
Die Täubchen, wie vergnügt man sei;
Der Kopf erinnert dich des Lebens,
Im Grab ist aller Wunsch vergebens,
Drum lieb und lebe, weil man kann,
Wer weiß, wie bald wir wandern müssen!
Das Leben steckt im treuen Küssen,
Ach, fang den Augenblick noch an!

[Johann Christian Günther]


Freie Wahl mit guten Vorsätzen

am Beispiel üste

Die üste hat die freie Wahl:
Wenn sie ein W wählt bleibt sie kahl
Wenn sie ein K wählt wird sie nass -
Die freie Wahl macht keinen Spass

[Erich Fried ]

[Orang Utan]

Pointy Birds
by Steve Martin

Pointy birds,
oh pointy pointy.
Anoint my head
anointy 'nointy...

[bitch one]

this i by tom leonard, he writes a lot in phonetic glaswegian dialect so some of you may have problems

this is thi
six a clock
news thi
man said n
thi reason
a talk wia
BBC accent
iz coz yi
widny wahnt
mi ti talk
aboot thi
trooth wia
voice lik
wanna yoo
scruff. if
a toktaboot
thi trooth
lik wanna yoo
scruff yi
widny thingk
it wuz troo.
jist wanna yoo
scruff tokn.
thirza right
way ti spell
ana right way
to tok it. this
is me tokn yir
right way a
spellin. this
is ma trooth.
yooz doant no
thi trooth
yirsellz cawz
yi canny talk
right. this is
the six a clock
nyooz. belt up.

[bitch one]

here's another wee tom leonard poem. wouldn't call it my favourite, but that;s what was online

A Short History of the British Judiciary

And their judges spoke with one dialect
but the condemned spoke with many voices.

And the prisons were full of many voices,
but never the dialect of the judges.

And the judges said:
"No-one is above the Law."

[TimB]

[IF]

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!


--Rudyard Kipling

[Basic 2: The Revenge]

Originally posted by Orang Utan
Pointy Birds
by Steve Martin

Pointy birds,
oh pointy pointy.
Anoint my head
anointy 'nointy...

You cannot deny the rich cultural influence of the man with two brains

[algo]

Between my finger and thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving thier cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.

My Grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.

Seamus Heany (1939 - )