is there any good poetry

Music posts are a bannable offense.
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canon.docre
Olde Timer
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Location: Vancouver, BC

The Charge of the Light Brigade
By Alfred, Lord Tennyson

I
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!” he said.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

II
“Forward, the Light Brigade!”
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldier knew
Someone had blundered.
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

III
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of hell
Rode the six hundred.

IV
Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wondered.
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre stroke
Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

V
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell.
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

VI
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!
[XHATEXBRIGADEX] because your a polotical faggot
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The Real MPD
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Eight Bit Alien wrote:
Thu Oct 26, 2017 7:50 pm
Newborn babies coming home from the war
:fonz:
cxwx
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MeatGrease wrote: Giuliani kicks ass
never forget
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kevin hash
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the awesome Assassin wrote:
Fri Mar 10, 2017 12:00 pm
Have you ever witnessed an overdose
My best friend died this last Saturday.
I woke up and he was sitting dead in my chair.
I knew a girl in Portland
Did you suck his cock?

Did you pilfer his wallet?
TROLL WORLD ORDER 4 LIFE

:invcross: BUNGVOX got powerbombed off the stage because he wasn't T.W.O 4 LIFE brother. :invcross:
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Chad
need...miss...want...
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not without a traditional framework...lacking that, it's pure self worship

actual bloviating formless into the wind

(and expecting to be praised for it)

Gg allin was a poet

cxwx
ANSU++
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MeatGrease wrote: Giuliani kicks ass
never forget
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FVBTVS
Sweet Lord _______
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Something To Believe In by Carl Phillips

My two hunting dogs have names, but I rarely use them. As I go, they go: I lead; they follow, the blue-eyed one first, then the one whose coloring—her coat, not her eyes—I sometimes call never-again-o-never-this-way-henceforth. Hope, ambition: these are not their names, though the way they run might suggest otherwise. Like steam off night-soaked wooden fencing when the sun first hits it, they rise each morning at my command. Late in the Iliad, Priam the king of Troy predicts his own murder— correctly, except it won’t be by spear, as he imagines, but by sword thrust. He can see his corpse, sees the dogs he’s fed and trained so patiently pulling the corpse apart. After that, he says, When they’re full, they’ll lie in the doorway, they’ll lap my blood.
I say: Why shouldn’t they? Everywhere, the same people who mistake obedience for loyalty think somehow loyalty weighs more than hunger, when it doesn’t. At night, when it’s time for bed, we sleep together, the three of us: muscled animal, muscled animal, muscled animal. The dogs settle to either side of me as if each were the slightly folded wing of a beast from fable, part power, part recognition. We breathe in a loose kind of unison. Our breathing ripples the way oblivion does—routinely, across history’s face.
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White Like Jesus
How's them beans, ma?
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Resumé by Dorothy Parker

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’t lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
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Eight Bit Alien
How's them beans, ma?
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there once was a twat from new jersey
Zerohero wrote:
Fri Oct 16, 2020 10:59 am
cleaning out old stuff in the freezer--- old slice of leftover pizza..boom eaten back to life
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Honky Kong 64
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some faves...

Percy Shelley
Rimbaud
Neruda
E.B.B. (Aurora Leigh specifically)
No Cunting Elves
featherboa
hovering.
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The spheres in motion wrapped around collapsing stars
Immortal hands and eyes are framed in fearful scars
i cut my hand at work and just let it drip on my desk during a conference call -copstache
probably some punk broth - tvbfvs
dames are lousy now mah i gotta bop peckahs -eba
it's been hard to find the focus necessary with all the racket my wife & her boyfriend have been making -necro-meter
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Geeheeb
Shit Stadium 4000
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release the spores
FVBTVS wrote:
Tue Feb 06, 2018 12:04 pm
from enslavement to obliteration is older than abbey road
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FVBTVS
Sweet Lord _______
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To Autumn
By John Keats


Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering of the juggalos swallows twitter in the skies.
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the awesome Assassin
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FVBTVS
Sweet Lord _______
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THE WORM

The sun: a worm with a spring withy in its jaws.

Mouthcrease like the gash in the spider’s globe.

It burns above us; it burns a wormhole in the night.

The white, furred heads of our spiders eat spindles
with their eight arms, move sideways like stars,
like porcelain crabs across hot sands; they feast on cotton
candy bundles of gillyflowers bathed in frost, pearly
with mothwing dust—O this sight, sickening at first,
until I saw the budding worm.

Was it a lily or a withy flapping there in the ground?

(Does the worm fly or does it climb a winding stair?)

With a sprig in its jaws, it moved like a snake in the sky,
not like a crab on sand or a worm in earth.
In that copse, where the trees are soft, the forest floor
is proudflesh and the earth crowns-up.
Here the hungry worm rips at its earthly counterpart.

I’d been taught to praise the snake and fear the worm.
To revere the spider’s patience and its paralyzing bite.
But this was holy, an otherworldly thing, straining
through the earth, moving with a branch in its jaws,
up through the loams,
tunneling up through gravelly deposits and pepperdirts.

The flag is from the roots of Paradise, from one hairy tap,
fed by the aqueducts of the underworld, underground
estuaries, the opposite of piled-high hierarchical clouds,
those frosted fortresses wringing rains into funnel tubes.

Above our heads a metal-bottomed galleon ship glides
while at our feet the lowly worm turns, the sticky worm
never to be caught in a spider’s web, or eaten by the pulpous snake.
This worm carries an osier with tiny buds up from the mud,
a flag, offering true leaves for the coming thunderhead.

Regan Good
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FVBTVS
Sweet Lord _______
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Toilet Fleet
You can say anything you want about my wife...but don't you say a goddamn thing about my daughter.
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How on earth did it happen, I used to wonder
that a whole city—arches, pillars, colonnades,
not to mention vehicles and animals—had all
one fine day gone under?

I mean, I said to myself, the world was small then.
Surely a great city must have been missed?
I miss our old city —

white pepper, white pudding, you and I meeting
under fanlights and low skies to go home in it. Maybe
what really happened is

this: the old fable-makers searched hard for a word
to convey that what is gone is gone forever and
never found it. And so, in the best traditions of

where we come from, they gave their sorrow a name
and drowned it.



Eavan Boland, Atlantis—A Lost Sonnet
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FVBTVS
Sweet Lord _______
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Encounter
By Czeslaw Milosz



We were riding through frozen fields in a wagon at dawn.
A red wing rose in the darkness.

And suddenly a hare ran across the road.
One of us pointed to it with his hand.

That was long ago. Today neither of them is alive,
Not the hare, nor the man who made the gesture.

O my love, where are they, where are they going
The flash of a hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles.
I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder.


Wilno, 1936
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