Registered: Dec 2004
Location:
Posts: 205

This is one of my favorite poems. Can you guess the poet and the name of his piece? If you can, simple simon and MrG will give you a blowjob! Oh my! Aren't you a lucky boy!

The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches tigers
In red weather.

Report this post to a moderator | IP: Logged

Registered: Dec 2002
Location:
Posts: 15981

Get a new pic, please. Oh, and you cannot commit me to anything. You, however, can come try to blow me if you wish. Bring the oriental bitch with you.

Report this post to a moderator | IP: Logged

Registered: Dec 2004
Location:
Posts: 205

quote:

---

Originally posted by SimpleSimon
Get a new pic, please. Oh, and you cannot commit me to anything. You, however, can come try to blow me if you wish. Bring the oriental bitch with you.

---

Ok! New pic!

Report this post to a moderator | IP: Logged

Registered: Dec 2004
Location:
Posts: 205

Come on, you motherfuckers! Guess the poem! I guess you don't want that blowjob!

Report this post to a moderator | IP: Logged

Registered: Mar 2004
Location: Still Orygun
Posts: 10243

Did we decide littlebill is or isn't FeFe? also, maybe we know what the poem is but we don't want to admit it because now we don't like it any more, given the company it keeps.

Report this post to a moderator | IP: Logged

Registered: Dec 2004
Location:
Posts: 205

quote:

---

Originally posted by ignatz mouse
Did we decide littlebill is or isn't FeFe? also, maybe we know what the poem is but we don't want to admit it because now we don't like it any more, given the company it keeps.

---

Your ass hurts!

Report this post to a moderator | IP: Logged

Registered: Apr 2003
Location: . o O
Posts: 6368

It's photobucket pr0n.

__________________

[Ignore Sig]

Report this post to a moderator | IP: Logged

Registered: Dec 2004
Location:
Posts: 205

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree :
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round :
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover !
A savage place ! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover !
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced :
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail :
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean :
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war !


The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves ;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice !
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw :
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,

That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome ! those caves of ice !
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware ! Beware !
His flashing eyes, his floating hair !
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Report this post to a moderator | IP: Logged

Registered: Jul 2000
Location: Sedona, Arizona
Posts: 18823

Twas brillig and the slivey tove....

Report this post to a moderator | IP: Logged

Registered: Dec 2002
Location:
Posts: 15981

it's "slithy toves"



Did gyre and gimble in the wabe

Report this post to a moderator | IP: Logged

Registered: Apr 2004
Location: Insatiation
Posts: 8980

The Pig


The Pig, if I am not mistaken,
Gives us ham and pork and Bacon.
Let others think his heart is big,
I think it stupid of the Pig.

Report this post to a moderator | IP: Logged

Registered: Feb 2004
Location: Centrally isolated
Posts: 280

I am not sure what this thread is about, but I have story to share. My pre-teen and teenage years were spent in the Ohio Valley. Although I never graduated from highschool, the time I spent attending was mostly filled with football and wrestling or training for each. I lettered every year in both, and in hindsight was really a mean, physical, and reckless son-of-a-bitch. Time passed, and now I find myself sitting behind a desk 1050 miles from the arenas of my youth, fighting off middle age at the YMCA, and spending a few cold winter nights nursing beers at the local bar playing keno while reading or writing manuscripts.
About 6 weeks ago I was waiting in line for the keno writer to process my wagers, and like most sports bars this one has the usual multitude of TVs. Standing vacantly I glanced at one of the large screen monitors and caught familiar images. Ticket in hand I moved to the bar, and asked the waitress to switch on ESPN2 and increase the sound so I could listen. What I heard was poetry, against the backdrop of the Martins Ferry, OH highschool football stadium. This show was about the Purple Riders, at least in part, and the legacy of football in those small mill towns. As I watched bits of games flashed from throughout the years, and for a few seconds I caught myself playing outside linebacker in 1985 (I did not play for Martins Ferry).
How might this even be relevant? The poetry was from a Martins Ferry native by the name of James Wright. Although I had never heard of him or his work prior to this show, I am now a fan.


Autumn Begins in Martins Ferry, Ohio – James Wright
In the Shreve High football stadium,
I think of Polacks nursing long beers in Tiltonsville,
And gray faces of Negroes in the blast furnace at Benwood,
And the ruptured night watchman of Wheeling Steel,
Dreaming of heroes.

All the proud fathers are ashamed to go home.
Their women cluck like starved pullets,
Dying for love.

Therefore,
Their sons grow suicidally beautiful
At the beginning of October,
And gallop terribly against each other's bodies.

Report this post to a moderator | IP: Logged