HEY MAN, MY POEM WAS GOOD! :fuckyou:

hah yeah it was

:mad:
mine was okay at best!

I like to eat an orange
With my friend George Malakornge
So juicy sweet
So good to eat
An orange with George Malakornge


I swear I was just learning how to play that song 10 seconds ago. Crazy.

PROPER NOUNS DON'T COUNT! :mad:

YOU DIDN'T SAY THAT! :mad:

I read something somewhere that had a bunch of stuff that could be pronounced in a way that worked, like with "silver" and "purple" and "month" and stuff, too. Gotta find that.

Orange
Door hinge

Could work.

i sitll think chlorine rhymes

...okay, i'll give you that much.

Fuck yeah! I've been a big promoter of the orange doorhinge rhyme for fucking years... and now, a poem


The batteries drum on like all her button-breaking, zipper-pulling,
pill-induced motions,
Stuccoing the arch where our abdomens meet,
making fresh renovations to cast rehashed shadows
on that sickle-celled square
where black-jack sax beggars still beg to the beat,

motioning the space-time frieze.

She is time herself because time herself
has stepped outside
for a cigarette, a comma, and a petty manicure,
tapping pink fingernails to the beat.


But what color will her cuticles be
when maggots lap at her feet,
when coffin-colored cubicles
have all but torn her dainty hands apart?


Mushroom cloud blue
and then time will cease.

But, still, I am willing to cough up a roll of quarters
just for her,

my
my
my

Vending machine girl:

Concessions for a longer life.

That's jazzy, baby... :cool:

i like it.

I'm going to write a spontaneous poem and dedicate it to top 40 squeeze, simply because its going to involve washington square park

My prayer wheel's spinning in Washington Square Park
The piece at the end of the chain to keep it going
Is pointing at everyone around me
Three Frenchmen and one Frenchwoman
Singing passionately along with the street choir
Every word of "Ground Control to Major Tom"
The choir themselves assembled from what
Must've been a who'dve thunk it meeting of the minds
Not one of them lives less than
A subway ride from the next
But they've all met up near the northeast corner
To remind us how great those top fourty songs really were
"It was just my imagination running away with me"
And someone walks up and asks me what I'm holding
"It's a prayer wheel, it's got prayers inside and out
And if you keep spinning it its like yr saying them
A thousand times each time it goes around"
He asks me if I've read some piece by Ginsberg
Tells me "most of us Black Folk don't know Ginsberg
But I studied them all!" and just then another
Man walks by yelling at the top of his lungs
"Play some real black music!" and the two of us
Laugh as the weight at the end of my
Prayer wheel made out of bone
Points at him too.

Gay gay
What did you say?
Gay?
No you said poof.
Poof poof can you hear me?
Yeah?
QUEEN!

this one makes me dance

I'm glad I'm not on the list.

less talking, more poems

Why?

bump

Because lists are arbitrary, and poetry should not be a competitive sport.

Hear, hear.