Dangers of Drag
Trochaic quatrameter sonnet
My small hand stretched slowly upwards
Snatches at the sodden leather
One small hand slid further downwards
Holds the rest of me together
Beige thoughts, smoothing over top
“Just walk calmly, don’t succumb”
Clear glass thoughts slit, slide, and drop
Raw and ragged, blood and cum
Grab a wall, just keep on moving
Balanced on two broken heels
Nothing left to keep on proving
Never mind what pride reveals
Trust and hope have passed away
Drained of blood and naiveté
Needs work, I know, suggestions? (Please?)
upon first read it was very enjoyable. however, in order to give accurate criticism i'll have to disect it. hopefully i'll get to this tonight...
ta, I really apreciate it.
sorry, Ganymede, i haven't gotten to it. let me see if i can tonight ;)
Deviate, if you do this it'd be an imense favour, watch me actively not bitch about trivial details, whenever you can get to it is wonderful
lol. still haven't gotten to it. i'm so unreliable.
oh, and this was a blatant attempt to bump up this thread, or thead as it's been named. i just didn't want people's (and my) poetry to be lost in the shadow of another thread....
Bah. Bah on you. ;)
I've been slamming more these days, if you don't know what slam sounds like this won't come off like it's supposed to.
I picked my shortest and cleanest one:
hippocratic hypocrites are guarding over us
eyes on the prize they're watching out for us
‘cause our health is their welfare
and welfare whores don’t get given bus fare
out of this glass fish bowl
‘till they’ve had their fair share
shared our brains out to every tortoise and hare
racing off down the rabbit hole
with the phylum, order, and genus
of each issue that’s issued out to us
digging what they want from our brains
just so they can bury it "properly" again
trying in vain
to put square corners on our pain
still they may be tidy but they’ll never be clean
unless they scrape out our insides and build us over again
and I still object to that shame
‘cause when they look in my eyes
I don’t see the prophets or the wise
I see the kids who ****ing theorise
about life under the big top
and they don’t know when we’re going to pop
but the theory still scares them into trying to stop
the hop skip and drop
of our diagnosable thoughts
More bitter than black coffee with no sugar, no cream.
Here’s a different med poem, but more silly:
Go hang yourself, you old M.D,!
You shall not sneer at me.
Pick up your hat and stethoscope,
Go wash your mouth with laundry soap;
I contemplate a joy exquisite
In not paying you for your visit.
I did not call you to be told
My malady is a common cold.
By pounding brow and swollen lip;
By fever's hot and scaly grip;
By those two red redundant eyes
That weep like woeful April skies;
By racking snuffle, snort, and sniff;
By handkerchief after handkerchief;
This cold you wave away as naught
Is the damnedest cold man ever caught!
Give ear, you scientific fossil!
Here is the genuine Cold Colossal;
The Cold of which researchers dream,
The Perfect Cold, the Cold Supreme.
This honored system humbly holds
The Super-cold to end all colds;
The Cold Crusading for Democracy;
The Führer of the Streptococcracy.
Bacilli swarm within my portals
Such as were ne'er conceived by mortals,
But bred by scientists wise and hoary
In some Olympic laboratory;
Bacteria as large as mice,
With feet of fire and heads of ice
Who never interrupt for slumber
Their stamping elephantine rumba.
A common cold, gadzooks, forsooth!
Ah, yes. And Lincoln was jostled by Booth;
Don Juan was a budding gallant,
And Shakespeare's plays show signs of talent;
The Arctic winter is fairly coolish,
And your diagnosis is fairly foolish.
Oh what a derision history holds
For the man who belittled the Cold of Colds!
-- Ogden Nash
A mighty creature is the germ,
Though smaller than a pachyderm.
His customary dwelling place
Is deep within the human race.
His childish pride he often pleases
By giving people strange diseases.
Do you, dear reader, feel infirm?
You probably contain a germ.
-- also Ogden Nash
As day segues off into the night,
I weary of this endless fight
I run, too slow, clumsy, too late,
My life is whipped at other’s gait.
The moon arises, made of ice,
in dark skies, silver clouds entice
the soul to cool in darkening skies
to rest until the next sunrise.
'cos I do
I'd like to say I like you,
but it's much more than that.
I need to say I need you,
while all alone I'm sat.
I want to say I want you,
I think you know it's true.
I'd love to say I love you,
'cos I do.
I did a review of that poem in high school. A million billion years ago.
That and “my father moved through dooms of love…”
i like e.e.cummings but i thought these were supposed to be original poems
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