- Iron Prince
- Aug 28, 2005
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Buglord
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i get it this is GBS and all our fuckin posts are poo poo worth preserving in some single run volume from some artisanal printer or however the gently caress poetry is published. but this thread is for the FUCKIN BIG DOGS. those motherfuckers whose words about things stood the test of goddamn TIME. here we got some SHELLEY to kick us off:
code:
Shelley's "Ozymandias"
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
i mean HOLY poo poo is that poignant or what
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Jun 5, 2016 05:38
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- Adbot
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ADBOT LOVES YOU
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Apr 28, 2024 20:25
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- Nude
- Nov 16, 2014
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I have no idea what I'm doing.
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code:Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
'Good-morning,' and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich - yes, richer than a king -
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
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Jun 5, 2016 05:44
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- PTSDeedly Do
- Nov 24, 2014
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VOID-DOME LOSER 2020
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code:Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
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Jun 5, 2016 05:44
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- JiveHonky
- May 12, 2001
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by zen death robot
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Grimey Drawer
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code:
roses are red,
violets are blue,
chinatowns right,
mods loving knew
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Jun 5, 2016 05:49
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- symbolic
- Nov 2, 2014
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Shelley's very good, OP, but we gotta get some Keats up in this bitch
code:Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
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Jun 5, 2016 05:50
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- coolskull
- Nov 11, 2007
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what if i just post rap lyr
code:Hey hey hey,
smoke weed everyday
ah gently caress you, i don't want to post anymore
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Jun 5, 2016 05:50
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- JiveHonky
- May 12, 2001
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by zen death robot
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Grimey Drawer
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code:
there was an old mod from san dimas
whom everyone thought was a genius
one day he got mad and banned a gay dad
now he just looks like a penis
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Jun 5, 2016 05:55
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- ANIME IS BLOOD
- Sep 4, 2008
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by zen death robot
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Per me si va ne la città dolente,
per me si va ne l'etterno dolore,
per me si va tra la perduta gente.
Giustizia mosse il mio alto fattore:
fecemi la divina potestate,
la somma sapienza e 'l primo amore.
Dinanzi a me non fuor cose create
se non etterne, e io etterno duro.
Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate
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Jun 5, 2016 06:02
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- ANIME IS BLOOD
- Sep 4, 2008
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by zen death robot
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add this to the rollover tooltip for GBS
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Jun 5, 2016 06:03
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- Nolan Arenado
- May 8, 2009
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I do not go to the park.
That is not a principal of mine, it is just a fact.
I often wonder what I might see if I did go to the park.
I’m sure there would be dogs, people, and other things.
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Jun 5, 2016 06:04
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- raton
- Jul 28, 2003
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by FactsAreUseless
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^^The forums r dieing
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Jun 5, 2016 06:05
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- raton
- Jul 28, 2003
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by FactsAreUseless
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Goddamnit toilet shoes
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Jun 5, 2016 06:06
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- Nolan Arenado
- May 8, 2009
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That is not a poem.
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Jun 5, 2016 06:06
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- Sponge Baathist
- Jan 30, 2010
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by FactsAreUseless
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Here i poo poo
Lonely hearted
Tried to post
But only farted
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Jun 5, 2016 06:08
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- JiveHonky
- May 12, 2001
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by zen death robot
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Grimey Drawer
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its a poem its just not a good poem.
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Jun 5, 2016 06:08
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- coolskull
- Nov 11, 2007
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looks like we got a prescriptivist here fellas
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Jun 5, 2016 06:09
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- coolskull
- Nov 11, 2007
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i looked for a poem i like but it's not on the internet. just gonna say, jean feraca is good, and her poem "the zealot" is extra good.
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Jun 5, 2016 06:12
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- Wizchine
- Sep 17, 2007
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Television is the retina
of the mind's eye.
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Shelley's very good, OP, but we gotta get some Keats up in this bitch
I concur.
code: 1
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
by nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
For shade to shade will come to drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
2
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
3
She dwells with Beauty---Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips;
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
Wizchine fucked around with this message at 06:15 on Jun 5, 2016
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Jun 5, 2016 06:12
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- Vastarien
- Dec 20, 2012
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Where I live is nightmare, thus a certain nonchalance.
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Buglord
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Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year’s horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.
Talk about poignant!
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Jun 5, 2016 06:14
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- coolskull
- Nov 11, 2007
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put another dime in the jukebox bae bee
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Jun 5, 2016 06:14
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- Iron Prince
- Aug 28, 2005
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Buglord
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anyone lurk in' this thread is doing a disservice to themselves + their ancestry by not clicking this high quality unlabeled youtub link
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Jun 5, 2016 06:14
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- cub
- Sep 6, 2014
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by Shine
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anyone lurk in' this thread is doing a disservice to themselves + their ancestry by not clicking this high quality unlabeled youtub link
no poo poo sherlock
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Jun 5, 2016 06:16
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- Iron Prince
- Aug 28, 2005
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Buglord
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bitch it is a good link
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Jun 5, 2016 06:20
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- Das Boo
- Jun 9, 2011
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There was a GHOST here.
It's gone now.
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code: My childhood's home I see again,
And sadden with the view;
And still, as memory crowds my brain,
There's pleasure in it too.
O Memory! thou midway world
'Twixt earth and paradise,
Where things decayed and loved ones lost
In dreamy shadows rise,
And, freed from all that's earthly vile,
Seem hallowed, pure, and bright,
Like scenes in some enchanted isle
All bathed in liquid light.
As dusky mountains please the eye
When twilight chases day;
As bugle-tones that, passing by,
In distance die away;
As leaving some grand waterfall,
We, lingering, list its roar—
So memory will hallow all
We've known, but know no more.
Near twenty years have passed away
Since here I bid farewell
To woods and fields, and scenes of play,
And playmates loved so well.
Where many were, but few remain
Of old familiar things;
But seeing them, to mind again
The lost and absent brings.
The friends I left that parting day,
How changed, as time has sped!
Young childhood grown, strong manhood gray,
And half of all are dead.
I hear the loved survivors tell
How nought from death could save,
Till every sound appears a knell,
And every spot a grave.
I range the fields with pensive tread,
And pace the hollow rooms,
And feel (companion of the dead)
I'm living in the tombs.
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Jun 5, 2016 07:36
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- El Boot
- Mar 18, 2009
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Thank Dog It's Friday
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code:Farm boys wild to couple
With anything with soft-wooded trees
With mounds of earth mounds
Of pinestraw will keep themselves off
Animals by legends of their own:
In the hay-tunnel dark
And dung of barns, they will
Say I have heard tell
That in a museum in Atlanta
Way back in a corner somewhere
There’s this thing that’s only half
Sheep like a woolly baby
Pickled in alcohol because
Those things can’t live. his eyes
Are open but you can’t stand to look
I heard from somebody who ...
But this is now almost all
Gone. The boys have taken
Their own true wives in the city,
The sheep are safe in the west hill
Pasture but we who were born there
Still are not sure. Are we,
Because we remember, remembered
In the terrible dust of museums?
Merely with his eyes, the sheep-child may
Be saying saying
I am here, in my father’s house.
I who am half of your world, came deeply
To my mother in the long grass
Of the west pasture, where she stood like moonlight
Listening for foxes. It was something like love
From another world that seized her
From behind, and she gave, not lifting her head
Out of dew, without ever looking, her best
Self to that great need. Turned loose, she dipped her face
Farther into the chill of the earth, and in a sound
Of sobbing of something stumbling
Away, began, as she must do,
To carry me. I woke, dying,
In the summer sun of the hillside, with my eyes
Far more than human. I saw for a blazing moment
The great grassy world from both sides,
Man and beast in the round of their need,
And the hill wind stirred in my wool,
My hoof and my hand clasped each other,
I ate my one meal
Of milk, and died
Staring. From dark grass I came straight
To my father’s house, whose dust
Whirls up in the halls for no reason
When no one comes piling deep in a hellish mild corner,
And, through my immortal waters,
I meet the sun’s grains eye
To eye, and they fail at my closet of glass.
Dead, I am most surely living
In the minds of farm boys: I am he who drives
Them like wolves from the hound bitch and calf
And from the chaste ewe in the wind.
They go into woods into bean fields they go
Deep into their known right hands. Dreaming of me,
They groan they wait they suffer
Themselves, they marry, they raise their kind.
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Jun 5, 2016 08:55
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- glowstick party tonight
- Oct 4, 2003
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by zen death robot
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so much depends
on a red shitpost
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Jun 5, 2016 08:57
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- Hip Gelatinous Cube
- May 30, 2001
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what up
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i relate to this sonnet because i, too, wish to gently caress Henry VIII's wife
code:Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,
But as for me, hélas, I may no more.
The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,
I am of them that farthest cometh behind.
Yet may I by no means my wearied mind
Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore
Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore,
Sithens in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,
As well as I may spend his time in vain.
And graven with diamonds in letters plain
There is written, her fair neck round about:
Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am,
And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.
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Jun 5, 2016 09:06
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- El Boot
- Mar 18, 2009
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Thank Dog It's Friday
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i relate to this sonnet because i, too, wish to gently caress Henry VIII's wife
which one
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Jun 5, 2016 10:47
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- Curdy Lemonstan
- Jan 25, 2012
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by zen death robot
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Roses are red
Boulders are grey
420
Smoke weed everyday
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Jun 5, 2016 11:43
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- Sombrerotron
- Aug 1, 2004
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Release my children! My hat is truly great and mighty.
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code:Naked she lay, clasped in my longing arms,
I filled with love, and she all over charms;
Both equally inspired with eager fire,
Melting through kindness, flaming in desire.
With arms,legs,lips close clinging to embrace,
She clips me to her breast, and sucks me to her face.
Her nimble tongue, Love's lesser lightening, played
Within my mouth, and to my thoughts conveyed
Swift orders that I should prepare to throw
The all-dissolving thunderbolt below.
My fluttering soul, sprung with the painted kiss,
Hangs hovering o'er her balmy brinks of bliss.
But whilst her busy hand would guide that part
Which should convey my soul up to her heart,
In liquid raptures I dissolve all o'er,
Melt into sperm and, and spend at every pore.
A touch from any part of her had done't:
Her hand, her foot, her very look's a oval office.
Smiling, she chides in a kind murmuring noise,
And from her body wipes the clammy joys,
When, with a thousand kisses wandering o'er
My panting bosom, "Is there then no more?"
She cries. "All this to love and rapture's due;
Must we not pay a debt to pleasure too?"
But I, the most forlorn, lost man alive,
To show my wished obedience vainly strive:
I sigh, alas! and kiss, but cannot swive.
Eager desires confound my first intent,
Succeeding shame does more success prevent,
And rage at last confirms me impotent.
Ev'n her fair hand, which might bid heat return
To frozen age, and make cold hermits burn,
Applied to my dead cinder, warms no more
Than fire to ashes could past flames restore.
Trembling, confused, despairing, limber, dry,
A wishing, weak, unmoving lump I lie.
This dart of love, whose piercing point, oft tried,
With virgin blood ten thousand maids have dyed;
Which nature still directed with such art
That it through every oval office reached every heart -
Stiffly resolved, 'twould carelessly invade
Woman or man, nor aught its fury stayed:
Where'er it pierced, a oval office it found or made -
Now languid lies in this unhappy hour,
Shrunk up and sapless like a withered flower.
Thou treacherous, base deserter of my flame,
False to my passion, fatal to my fame,
Through what mistaken magic dost thou prove
So true to lewdness, so untrue to love?
What oyster-cinder-beggar-common whore
Didst thou e'er fail in all thy life before?
When vice, disease, and scandal lead the way,
With what officious haste dost thou obey!
Like a rude, roaring hector in the streets
Who scuffles, cuffs, and justles all he meets,
But if his king or country claim his aid,
The rakehell villain shrinks and hides his head;
Ev'n so thy brutal valour is displayed,
Breaks every stew, does each small whore invade,
But when great Love the onset does command,
Base recreant to thy prince, thou dar'st not stand.
Worst part of me, and henceforth hated most,
Through all the town a common loving-post,
On whom each whore relieves her tingling oval office
As hogs do rub themselves on gates and grunt,
May'st thou to ravenous chancres be a prey,
Or in consuming weepings waste away;
May strangury and stone thy days attend;
May'st thou ne'er piss, who did refuse to spend
When all my joys did on false thee depend.
And may ten thousand abler pricks agree
To do the wronged Corinna right for thee.
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Jun 5, 2016 12:14
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- Dinosaurmageddon
- Jul 7, 2007
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by zen death robot
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Hell Gem
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I am the Alpha and Omega
The Genesis at Vega
The Him - the Last
The Her - what's Passed
The synthesis of EDA
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Jun 5, 2016 12:30
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- Adbot
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ADBOT LOVES YOU
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Apr 28, 2024 20:25
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- cnut
- May 3, 2016
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This one always brings a tear to my eye and a knowing nod:
Hickory dickory dock,
Some chick is sucking my cock,
The clock struck two,
I dumped my goo,
And dropped the bitch off at the next block!
Hey!
-The Diceman
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Jun 5, 2016 12:38
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Jun 5, 2016 05:38
