Poems / poetry / verse

i had to read that poem at the front of a church on remembrance day when I was 7.
My fly was open.

There was a young man from Kent,
Whose dick was so long that it bent,
To save himself trouble he put it in double,
And instead of coming he went!

The animation could get interesting there...

I Travel by Miranda Vincent

Oh solid discs how you turn on an axle passed through the centre on a
vehicle for carrying passengers,
usually along a fixed route,
You move in a circular procession,circular procession,circular procession,
I have observed the discs on a vehicle for carrying passengers,
usually along a fixed route,
Move in a circular procession,
During the period of light between dawn and nightfall.

From this poetry blog

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p3U1I-ELJ6g

I love this poem.

^provenrad i just got it! I feel so proud of myself now.

Really? Ooooohh.. 'fixed route' hehehe!
I pictured the buses that I pass every day and the trains that I seldom make eye contact on.

naah it's a rewriting of a better-known work...

gene gene made a machine
art art did a fart
and blew the whole damn thing apart

Mary had a little lamb
She kept it in a bucket
And every time the lamb got out
The dog would try to
Put it back in again.

One from Tim Burton which I've always liked:

the boy with nails in his eyes
put up his christmas tree
it wasn't very good
'cos he couldn't really see.

thanks for all your input guys really appreciated! sorry it was off topic but i never am :)

Thats what spung to my mind too Nicolas - lovely bit of Dylan genius.

(not funny. good morning! funny is for later in the day ;) )

Insomniac

The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole . . .
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.

Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.

He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue . . .
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.

His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
Each gesture flees immediately down an alley
Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance
Drains like water out the hole at the far end.
He lives without privacy in a lidless room,
The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.

Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.
Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,
Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.

Sylvia Plath

Working Girls
Carl Sandburg

The working girls in the morning are going to work—

 long lines of them afoot amid the downtown stores
 and factories, thousands with little brick-shaped
 lunches wrapped in newspapers under their arms.

Each morning as I move through this river of young-

 woman life I feel a wonder about where it is all
 going, so many with a peach bloom of young years
 on them and laughter of red lips and memories in
 their eyes of dances the night before and plays and
 walks.

Green and gray streams run side by side in a river and

 so here are always the others, those who have been
 over the way, the women who know each one the
 end of life’s gamble for her, the meaning and the
 clew, the how and the why of the dances and the
 arms that passed around their waists and the fingers
 that played in their hair.

Faces go by written over: “I know it all, I know where
the bloom and the laughter go and I have memories,”

 and the feet of these move slower and they
 have wisdom where the others have beauty.

So the green and the gray move in the early morning

 on the downtown streets.

not funny but animatable I suppose

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 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.

No restricted to cycling, post up anything you like or dislike involving evocative language...please could any de-railers take their ostentatious babble somewhere else.

i'll go first.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

from Macbeth.

It's derailleur, you ignorant fixie twat.

It's derailleur, you ignorant fixie twat.

wrong thread

I clung to his head and it's hat
he swung it like a policeman trying to arrest a bee
He was
I buzzed and buzzed
He swung and swung
I got bored and followed a lady with a 99.

The ants are after us.
At first I thought I was wrong.
But then I spoke to some of the main ants.
They told me they wish to gain a foothold in the equities market.
I told them they would never succeed.

My mum is mad.
She left my dad.
Or he left her.
They didn't really get on.
I never met my dad.
He snuffed it in 89 I think.
The ants got him.

I broke my teeth off in the playground.
I was playing with my cousin.
I call him my cousin, but he is really my son.
He doesn't know I call him my cousin.
No one does.

I like wine.
I drink it to stop myself feeling like I feel when I am not drinking wine.
And also beer.

I knew she wasn’t English as she spoke it far too well.
Her grammar was goodly,
Verbs as they should be,
and her slang was bang on the bell.
As I watched their language barrier clang and bang.
I couldn’t hear, hear or see, England.
Bow, bo, then crumble into the sea.

Patrick Cahill

I knew she wasn’t English as I checked her passport.
Her grammar was Moroccan,
Herbs as they should be,
and her slang was bang on the bell.
As I watched their language barrier clang and bang.
I couldn’t hear, hear or see, England.
Bow, bo, selecta.