( out of mind) by mebarbie doll looks,sour milk drivecant put your face to a billboard but driving away from hollywooddriving away from sanity as wellcause hate everything insight SO YOU GO RAMBLING AWAY LIKE A SHOW WHOREAWAY, AWAY AND OUT OF MINDhate..last of all wordspeople fake the care and designed like a warhol(warhol would hate this)hate a movement,a hated songplastic, well plastic will burnlike a tumor, like a brain on fire of its designcant hate life,just hate the burning plastic

jimmy spako wrote:also, for shits & giggles:This is just to say I have listened tothe tunesthat were onthe four trackand whichyou were probablysavingfor mixdownForgive methey were badassso warmand so punchy-adapted from w.c. williamsSalut! (Though saying erased rather than listened to probably conveys the original sentiment more effectively)

joime wrote:SO YOU GO RAMBLING AWAY LIKE A SHOW WHOREAWAY, AWAY AND OUT OF MINDI read that as RAMBLING AWAY LIKE A SNOW WHORE. Change it to that.I quite like this, the final stanza from The Circus Animals' Desertion by W.B. Yeats:Yeats wrote:Those masterful images because completeGrew in pure mind, but out of what began?A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slutWho keeps the till. Now that my ladder's gone,I must lie down where all the ladders startIn the foul rag and bone shop of the heart. I read the poem Jazz June by Gwendolyn Brooks in 8th grade English, and it stuck with me:Brooks wrote: THE POOL PLAYERS. SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.We real cool. WeLeft school. WeLurk late. WeStrike straight. WeSing sin. WeThin gin. WeJazz June. WeDie soon.

The Rival by Sylvia PlathIf the moon smiled, she would resemble you. You leave the same impression Of something beautiful, but annihilating. Both of you are great light borrowers. Her O-mouth grieves at the world; yours is unaffected, And your first gift is making stone out of everything. I wake to a mausoleum; you are here, Ticking your fingers on the marble table, looking for cigarettes, Spiteful as a woman, but not so nervous, And dying to say something unanswerable. The moon, too, abuses her subjects, But in the daytime she is ridiculous. Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand, Arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity, White and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide. No day is safe from news of you, Walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.

vilna43 wrote:nice plath bithaven't really read too much of her stuffthat one I likeI've only read like seven or eight of her poems. My wife is a big fan and had me read this and I kind of fell in love with it. I'm not sure why I've never bothered to read more.

said the bald manto the vulcanwhere have you been?i've been here andhad no hair andnothing in between i talk to my headmy words are all carried awayi talk to my headmy head does not hearmy head does not hear

The Cobweb A few minutes ago, I stepped onto the deckof the house. From there I could see and hear the water,and everything that's happened to me all these years.It was hot and still. The tide was out.No birds sang. As I leaned against the railinga cobweb touched my forehead.It caught in my hair. No one can blame me that I turnedand went inside. There was no wind. The seawas dead calm. I hung the cobweb from the lampshade.Where I watch it shudder now and then when my breathtouches it. A fine thread. Intricate.Before long, before anyone realizes,I'll be gone from hereRaymond Carver

Maybe this will not interest but it would be fun if it does. Post poem you love of someone's or one of your own. Something that really stays with you....Shibboleth Paul CelanTogether with my stoneswept largebehind the bars,they dragged meto the midst of the marketto wherethe flag unfurls that Iswore no kind of oath to.Flute,double flute of night:think of the darktwin reddeningsin Vienna and Madrid.Set your flag at half mast,memory:At half mast today and forever.Heart:make yourself known even here,here in the midst of the market.Cry out the shibbolethinto your homeland strangeness.February. No pasaran.Einhorn:you know of the stones,you know of the waters,come,I'll lead you away to the voices of Estremadurai love that poemso much...

nice plath bithaven't really read too much of her stuffthat one I like

Salut the boiling of blood with fine words Jimmy Spakoand thank you aldofarianI like this Ungaretti so much i read more...shit but that fellow can almost cleanse his black shirt with the beautiful words....I have to think about that...