I couldn't spit English out, it sounded like tengo sometimes the Mets it happens. Hermosa, hand gestures, firepower. you need something concrete.

the riptide curls around my legs,holding me down as waves crash,sand in my hair,in my eyes,salt in my nose and lungs.in my topsy-turvy,i feel fingers grasp my wrist,i feel the force of lats,biceps and tricepspull me up onto my feet.i stumble and fall onto my backkeeping eyes shut as i bring myself back,when i squint up at the sun,i see your shadow over mine,i see the ocean carrying on,and i don't know which one tried to kill me.

ATTACK OF THE CRAB MONSTERSEven from the beach I could sense it ”lack of welcome, lack of abiding life,like something in the air, a certainlack of sound. Yesterdaythere was a mountain out there.Now it s gone. And lookat this radio, each tube neatlysliced in half. Blow the place up!That was my advice.But after the storm and the earthquake,after the tactic of the exploding planeand the strategy of the sinking boat, it lookedlike fate and I wanted to say, œDon t you see?So what if you re a famous biochemist!Lost with all hands is an old story. Sure, we re on the edgeof an important breakthrough, everyonehearing voices, everyone fallinginto caves, and you re outwandering through the jungle in the middle of the night in your negligee.Yes, we re way out thereon the edge of science, while the restof the island continues to disappear untilnothing s left except thiscliff in the middle of the ocean,and you, in your bathing suit,crouched behind the scuba tanks.I d like to tell younot to be afraid, but I ve lostmy voice. I m not used to all theselegs, these claws, these feelers.It s the old story, predictableas fallout ”the rearrangement of molecules.And everyone is surprisedand no one understandswhy each man tries to killthe thing he loves, when the changecomes over him. So now you knowwhat I never found the time to say.Sweetheart, put down your flamethrower.You know I always loved you.-Lawrence Raab

Waiting in the ruinsFor someone or somethingA ghost passing byWandering through this labyrinth No signs pointingNo way outThis used to be a cityWhere people dancedWatched TVMade love another timeNow a heavy silenceSettlesAmong the broken thingsAnd dust

Hey Let's post more here You go first

I'm a sucker for Yeats.What need you, being come to sense,But fumble in a greasy tillAnd add the halfpence to the penceAnd prayer to shivering prayer, untilYou have dried the marrow from the bone;For men were born to pray and save:Romantic Ireland s dead and gone,It s with O Leary in the grave.Yet they were of a different kind,The names that stilled your childish play,They have gone about the world like wind,But little time had they to prayFor whom the hangman s rope was spun,And what, God help us, could they save?Romantic Ireland s dead and gone,It s with O Leary in the grave.Was it for this the wild geese spreadThe grey wing upon every tide;For this that all that blood was shed,For this Edward Fitzgerald died,And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,All that delirium of the brave?Romantic Ireland s dead and gone,It s with O Leary in the grave.Yet could we turn the years again,And call those exiles as they wereIn all their loneliness and pain,You d cry, ˜Some woman s yellow hairHas maddened every mother s son :They weighed so lightly what they gave.But let them be, they re dead and gone,They re with O Leary in the grave.

From childhood he dreamed of beingable to keep with him all the objects inthe world lined up on his shelves andbookcases. He denied lack, oblivion oreven the likelihood of a missing piece.Order streamed from Noah in blue tri-angles and as the pure fury of hisclassifications rose around him,engulfing his life they came to be calledwaves by others, who drowned, aworld of them.Anne Carson, Short Talk on Total Collection

All poems posted here are good.. But i like ....MY own fat henDid go one dayOut in the lot,An egg to lay.The day was hotA cow sat by,And in her earWas a big fly."Buz, buz, buz, buz"The fly did go,In the cow's ear,bit it so.

The pure products of Americago crazy ”mountain folk from Kentuckyor the ribbed north end ofJerseywith its isolate lakes andvalleys, its deaf-mutes, thievesold namesand promiscuity betweendevil-may-care men who have takento railroadingout of sheer lust of adventure ”and young slatterns, bathedin filthfrom Monday to Saturdayto be tricked out that nightwith gaudsfrom imaginations which have nopeasant traditions to give themcharacterbut flutter and flauntsheer rags ”succumbing withoutemotionsave numbed terrorunder some hedge of choke-cherryor viburnum ”which they cannot express ”Unless it be that marriageperhapswith a dash of Indian bloodwill throw up a girl so desolateso hemmed roundwith disease or murderthat she'll be rescued by anagent ”reared by the state andsent out at fifteen to work insome hard-pressedhouse in the suburbs ”some doctor's family, some Elsie ”voluptuous waterexpressing with brokenbrain the truth about us ”her greatungainly hips and flopping breastsaddressed to cheapjewelryand rich young men with fine eyesas if the earth under our feetwerean excrement of some skyand we degraded prisonersdestinedto hunger until we eat filthwhile the imagination strainsafter deergoing by fields of goldenrod inthe stifling heat of SeptemberSomehowit seems to destroy usIt is only in isolate flecks thatsomethingis given offNo oneto witnessand adjust, no one to drive the carWilliam Carlos Williams, To Elsie

Nice poem sulfur addict !!!