NationStates Jolt Archive

CHILD OF THE ROMANS
Carl Sandburg

THE dago shovelman sits by the railroad track
Eating a noon meal of bread and bologna.
A train whirls by, and men and women at tables
Alive with red roses and yellow jonquils,
Eat steaks running with brown gravy,
Strawberries and cream, eclaires and coffee.
The dago shovelman finishes the dry bread and bologna,
Washes it down with a dipper from the water-boy,
And goes back to the second half of a ten-hour day's work
Keeping the road-bed so the roses and jonquils
Shake hardly at all in the cut glass vases
Standing slender on the tables in the dining cars.

Before I began breathing air
I breathed water.
Before I began dreaming
I was a dream.
Before I witnessed colours,
I was blind
But now that colours mean nothing to me,
I have regained my vision.

-Some dumb chick

Behold the Duck.
It does not cluck.
A cluck it lacks.
Instead, it quacks.

Here I sit
Am elated
Came to shit
Ejaculated!

CHILD OF THE ROMANS
Carl Sandburg

The dagos have since been replaced by the spics.*

*I hate racist terms, but understand the context I'm using it in here, please.

Here I sit
Am elated
Came to shit
Ejaculated!
Here I sit
Brokenhearted
Tried to shit
But only farted

The dagos have since been replaced by the spics.
Yep. Child of the Aztecs, maybe?

Anyway, it's good that it shows that "undignified" work is the foundation upon which civilized society stands.

Yep. Child of the Aztecs, maybe?
Hmmm...too exclusionary? Child of the Conquistadors.

When thought was but a word
And sorrow but a name,
When January seemed to blend into May,
When anger fuelled the world,
And justice bled away,
That's when I woke up
That's when I felt pain
And that is when I denied myself the white man's name.

-Some dumb chick

I can spew out this tripe indefinately. Put an end to it.

Ode to a Goldfish:
O wet pet

Hired
Tired
Fired

Ja visst gör det ont när knoppar brister.
Varför skulle annars våren tveka?
Varför skulle all vår heta längtan
bindas i det frusna bitterbleka?
Höljet var ju knoppen hela vintern.
Vad är det för nytt, som tär och spränger?
Ja visst gör det ont när knoppar brister,
ont för det som växer och det som stänger.

"Of course it hurts when buds burst.
Otherwise why would spring hesitate?
Why would all our fervent longing
be bound in the frozen bitter haze?
The bud was the casing all winter.
What is this new thing, which consumes and bursts?
Of course it hurts when buds burst,
pain for that which grows and for that which envelops."

the dust gives birth to the tree
the tree gives birth to the leaf
the leaf gives birth to the air
the air gives birth to us

=^^=
.../\...

dream green trains
in infinite forrest
by cave's blue glow
let keytops dance
to modem's chorus

=^^=
.../\...

O! Yellow Noodle
Cheese and Milk and margerine
Gotta Be K D

Well I was going to post a poem that my great-grandmother wrote during a very hard time in her life, but then I saw Fass' post, and remembered that some people negatively rear their ugly heads when mention of God enters a non-religious thread (not that Fass does....just that he always seems to show up in such arguments). So, instead, I'll just post a little bit of my favourite poem by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (The Lord of Burleigh, if anybody knows the poem)
'I can make no marriage present:
Little can I give my wife.
Love will make our cottage pleasant,
And I love thee more than life.'

Phantoms of Darkness
Beings of Light
A Celestial Orgy
Of Pain and Delight

I have walked the paths; the shadowed roads that led to terror’s breast. I have plumbed the depths of Hatred’s womb and scaled Destruction’s crest.

For every secret left unveiled, for every power learned, I’d sell the remnants of my soul, regardless how it burned. And still I sought a higher wisdom few could have attained. Though I found it, it would leave me – broken, damned and drained.

For now I find this power gained is more unto a curse. My spirit burns with every spell and each irreverent verse. Despite this strength and knowledge earned, I have paid a heavy toll, Never should’ve traded power for my own immortal soul.

c. Vincent Metzen

i feeeeeeeeeeeeel sooooooo white
pink.......
nail-bitten pawssssssssssssss
veins of............................
purple
pumping......
the red..........
red blood
that has spilled so...
many times...
for you...
and me
peepers of a yellow-green
scare the jeepers
and the creepers
out of a more earthly toned
semi-awake son of
ancestral desire
thirsty for truth
and water
and rest

Here is one of mine.


With roses red, upon the bed
Indulgent pleasures fill thy head

The satyrs dancing all the while
With carnations black and vile

The morning comes of your fame
Every breath calls out your name

Widows with such bleak desires
Ferry souls to immortal pyres

Every sun rise of every morn
Deliverence must ever mourn

Nymphants embrace Devil's tongue
Singing hymns to those who've hung