ConeyIslandOfTheMind
01-21-2007, 04:17 AM
Good sirs,
Where has my ink run off the page?
Is this the basis for your argument?
Stop drooling like lizards in heat,
And maybe I shall write my epic one day.
I do not care for your
silly flowers or your
Raging alcoholic heroes.
I have a refined taste for withering vines
And shivering cowards in the cold lights of Moscow.
Sighs, and thighs.
And a bit of sexual abandon.
Well, you may cry all you want about
Poetic justice
Your mother's home-cooked potatoes
And the moon's invisible string.
That is not poetry, it is maudlinery.
Here is my will, my eulogy, the shavings from the etchings on my tombstone.
Here is the very shine of my eyes,
The moment they closed forever.
There is your poetry,
Full of the angst and cowardess
That mocks the ashes of God.
Where has my ink run off the page?
Is this the basis for your argument?
Stop drooling like lizards in heat,
And maybe I shall write my epic one day.
I do not care for your
silly flowers or your
Raging alcoholic heroes.
I have a refined taste for withering vines
And shivering cowards in the cold lights of Moscow.
Sighs, and thighs.
And a bit of sexual abandon.
Well, you may cry all you want about
Poetic justice
Your mother's home-cooked potatoes
And the moon's invisible string.
That is not poetry, it is maudlinery.
Here is my will, my eulogy, the shavings from the etchings on my tombstone.
Here is the very shine of my eyes,
The moment they closed forever.
There is your poetry,
Full of the angst and cowardess
That mocks the ashes of God.