The Poetry Hideaway Korner: Haven for Rens and Stimpys

[Reid Welch]

But I like to tickle people, or make them think.
Often I pose as some other, often real, person.
These are my original works; you submit your own.
Make this a funny, TORTURE thread? Poetry really, really sucks, as a rule,
but, not always.

You can also quote filthy, ancient poetry and limericks of the past;
they need not be your own work. Just give attribution?

next form: you had better laugh! at "me". :lol:

 

[Reid Welch]

.


old fish, young fish, too small to fry, too big to be a baby,
you make me cry tears that fall into your bowl.
but they are salt and you were fresh
water fish. But now just—puffy guppy.

so i send you home to that lake for the lost.

toilet.

fishbean, good bye.

handle, water music.


________________________



is this OK, reid? thank you for letting me use your account, as I am not 13,
and so i can't post filth legally quite yet.

 

[Reid Welch]

Good and bad poetry can really be useful fo r instructional, spiritual, healing too!
http://www.landoverbaptist.net/forumdisplay.php?f=2
fun, parody site; go there and see worms squirm!

I wonder who that "Poetic Peter" is in real life?
Why people hide behind screen names is behind me.

Here is my favorite Poetic Peter poem. It's for your tender, malleable children.
Be sure to follow the directions and let the author recite the story for your dear
little empty-noggin'd egg-shells.

The Beautiful Pome of Religious Import is found HERE
It is called, and read aloud, BROWNIE MOUSIE.

Enjoy? You will need an ink jet printer to present it to your children,
preferably just at bedtime, for sweet dreams for the little dykes...I mean, tykes.



++++++++++++++++++++

ediots: comma after "spiritual, and added a legend of italic font under the hyperlink.

________________________________

 

[philf]

I suddenly feel like this recliner has been transformed into a "Poetry Appreciation Chair".

Vogon poetry is described by Douglas Adams as the third worst in the universe. Could this thread highlight the first or second?

 

[Reid Welch]

I suddenly feel like this recliner has been transformed into a "Poetry Appreciation Chair".
Vogon poetry is described by Douglas Adams as the third worst in the universe.
Could this thread highlight the first or second?

I second that proposititon! and hereby, in preposition, present my FILTHIEST POEM:

 

[Reid Welch]

Tie me tight with triple knots.

Yank if I get out of line.

Tweak the spring clamps if I'm bad,

begged the Clothesline of the Pole.

______________


11 Aug 05

 

[Reid Welch]

I'm not the only alleged poet here, no sirs! Jonathan Swift, author of "Gulliver's Travels" also wrote delicate poetry

His masterpiece, one of many, deserves its own posting place.

Note: women used white lead in oil to cover blemishes and age spots. Lead carbonate is poison.
Similary, "plasters", which were cloth pads saturated with tonics of oil and various poisons, mercurial compounds,
were in common use for sores that would never heal. Yet, the woman of yesteryear was as pure and gorgeous as any today.

An ode to Woman, by Swift, ca. 1710? About that era...next form.
Read it and make love to your lady, you'll be in just the right mood.

 

[Reid Welch]

A Beautiful Young Nymph Going To Bed

Corinna, Pride of Drury-Lane,
For whom no Shepherd sighs in vain;
Never did Covent Garden boast
So bright a batter'd, strolling Toast;
No drunken Rake to pick her up,
No Cellar where on Tick to sup;
Returning at the Midnight Hour;
Four Stories climbing to her Bow'r;
Then, seated on a three-legg'd Chair,
Takes off her artificial Hair:
Now, picking out a Crystal Eye,
She wipes it clean, and lays it by.
Her Eye-Brows from a Mouse's Hide,
Stuck on with Art on either Side,
Pulls off with Care, and first displays 'em,
Then in a Play-Book smoothly lays 'em.
Now dextrously her Plumpers draws,
That serve to fill her hollow Jaws.
Untwists a Wire; and from her Gums
A Set of Teeth completely comes.
Pulls out the Rags contriv'd to prop
Her flabby Dugs and down they drop.
Proceeding on, the lovely Goddess
Unlaces next her Steel-Rib'd Bodice;
Which by the Operator's Skill,
Press down the Lumps, the Hollows fill,
Up hoes her Hand, and off she slips
The Bolsters that supply her Hips.
With gentlest Touch, she next explores
Her Shankers, Issues, running Sores,
Effects of many a sad Disaster;
And then to each applies a Plaster.
But must, before she goes to Bed,
Rub off the Daubs of White and Red;
And smooth the Furrows in her Front,
With greasy Paper stuck upon't.
She takes a Bolus e'er she sleeps;
And then between two Blankets creeps.
With pains of love tormented lies;
Or if she chance to close her Eyes,
Of Bridewell and the Compter dreams,
And feels the Lash, and faintly screams;
Or, by a faithless Bully drawn,
At some Hedge-Tavern lies in Pawn;
Or to Jamaica seems transported,
Alone, and by no Planter courted;
Or, near Fleet-Ditch's oozy Brinks,
Surrounded with a Hundred Stinks,
Belated, seems on watch to lie,
And snap some Cull passing by;
Or, struck with Fear, her Fancy runs
On Watchmen, Constables and Duns,
From whom she meets with frequent Rubs;
But, never from Religious Clubs;
Whose Favour she is sure to find,
Because she pays them all in Kind.
CORINNA wakes. A dreadful Sight!
Behold the Ruins of the Night!
A wicked Rat her Plaster stole,
Half eat, and dragged it to his Hole.
The Crystal Eye, alas, was miss'd;
And Puss had on her Plumpers piss'd.
A Pigeon pick'd her Issue-Peas;
And Shock her Tresses fill'd with Fleas.
The Nymph, tho' in this mangled Plight,
Must ev'ry Morn her Limbs unite.
But how shall I describe her Arts
To recollect the scatter'd Parts?
Or show the Anguish, Toil, and Pain,
Of gath'ring up herself again?
The bashful Muse will never bear
In such a Scene to interfere.
Corinna in the Morning dizen'd,
Who sees, will spew; who smells, be poison'd.

_____________________

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-beautiful-young-nymph-going-to-bed/

notes, added: "bolus" = enema, "plumpers" are cotton or woolen padding for filling in the cheeks of toothless faces; "Fleet-Ditches' oozy stinks" = the infamous open sewer-gutter, into which everybody emptied their chamber pots. "Rake" = a raffish, horny man, out for sexual conquest. "Bolsters" of padding for bony hips. "Tik to sup" = common people bought meal tickets if they could, to obtain basic food, but few could regularly afford a 'restaurant meal'. It was done "on account" and the payment was made, not always in cash. Dugs = tits. "issue peas" = apparently (I intuit by context and constant reading of the times, "issue peas" are small balls of putty made of minimum oil and mostly powder, balls of putty, medicated or not, to fill ugly pock-holes too deep to cover with mere white lead or red paint. Syphilis and the Smallpox marked more than half of every living human then. See google image search for the "look" of a smallpox victim of the nineteenth century. Likewise, though no photos seem to exist, Syphilis made people die, yes but only after years of awful travails: noses half eaten away, missing halves of faces, running sores; even rich people made the best of the incurable, by custom-made, costly, "jewelry": face-part masks of silver or gold, glued on with gum, to make up for the missing half of a nose, etc. Otherwise, the poor were simply "plastered" in pitiful make-do to cover the most horrible defacements of Nature, that, we, today, would have NO IDEA ABOUT if not for this poem.
This is one reason why "A Beautiful Maiden..." is such an important survivor. It is as alive and vivid as a cinema of life made just yesterday;
this is what makes classic works, classically appealing: they are REAL, funny and terrrible: two very different and nearly impossible attributes to mix
into one recipe to recreate real life as it was. Thanks to Swift, "Corinna" yet lives...you see? Do you see her pleading eyes? She needs to be held,
no obligation; she needs YOU to say "it will all be all right". The poem is not comedy after all.

Bridewell and Compter = horrible, purgatorial prisons for wanton women, who, generally, repeat offenders, ended up being "transported" to Jamaica, to famish there, disappear, not into some savior's forgiving arms, but into the dirt, o! dearth of charms!

The poem is not cruel. It is satire, but utterly realistic of what life was like for the common woman of the day: no comforts at all.
Four flights up, and no supper, and fleas and rats and jeers and...all gone to dust, thank goodness for oblivion!

There is so much more I could say in honour of this work; even its first four lines, only, warrant a thousand-word thesis about the sublime,
yet complex, import of English, well-mastered.

Lovely pome, ah Sir Swift, thank you forever,
for I shall always love Woman Ass She Is.

Your Posterity,
r.

 

[Reid Welch]

What a great thread of perfected poetry!

We are so happy if you are happy too!
Please pardon me for slightly altering your words for clarity and brevity, in order that I can run on like a bike
with a loose handlebar stem and no brakes?

Happy Independence Day Greets are sent from the Americas to the British and the Canadians, in Particular!

_____________________

World's Worst Poetry is quite the thing! Brand new. Send laurels, Stanleys? :lol: :lol:
This, you won't believe me, is being writ on this spot, right now. It =may= want some retouches later.
But, today is our Fourth of July, which is equivalent to your Canuckadian's Boxing Day, I think, something like that?
Anyway, being a True Patriot of the Greatest Nation Ever, and because our board's owner is a Yank, I feel moved
that I can get away with just about anything that is not Locked down or kept in the (lost combination) Safe.

For Endless Fear Members of all Other Lands,

_________________________________


Written Upon the Annual Return
Of the Day When US Cut off Our Knowses


Fireworks 'sploding in the night
Recall the plot that 'came a fight!

And so we broke the teapot's seams,
For land, and things we'd take, like streams!

And wilden woods and Buffalo;
And the Indians: ev'ry stack of them must go!

And came The War of 1812
And into Candada we'd delve,
All twelve, our States, in Union
Strong! Know, our his-to-ry's a Prong!

Route The Redcoats from their Lambs!
Can. 'longs to Freedom ! ... that'r US!

Alas, our guns, they, rusty, jammed.

:|

Washington was dead, at least.
And when Limeys burned down His street
Where Mrs. Adams bustled fast
To save the Dear Old Portraits Past;

At least we'd time then to reflect
As Flames consume'd our error, worst:
What if the Dutch had kept to us??????
We'd be to-day of beer--or wurst?

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

 

[Reid Welch]

[youtube]fyFmxDtnxMs[/youtube]

Seriously now, I thought about this song for over thirty years before at last realizing,
I could easily steal images from the 'net and make an illustrated song of genuine....something.

What has changed, at root, since then? Sara Palin has just resigned from politics, that's what.
Hooray! It all comes out in the Wash ing ton, after all.

 

[Reid Welch]

This is the Fourth of July. And you know what, World? I am American.
I can speak for my country. Deal? I did not ask nor choose to be born in this country;
this country that =could boast= of many a past success, nor admit its many failures (which it has done).

"where there's never a boast nor brag....but should auld aquaintance be forgot, keep your eye on the Grand Old Flag!"
(Irving Berlin lyric of one hundred years ago...Berlin was a Russian-Jewish immigrant.

I am not "proud" to be in America today; just damned, damned lucky. We, mainstream Americans, do not think we're so "hot.
We are LUCKY and plucky by nature.

I tear for the dead of all times and places. I made that little video above, and in searching for suitable images, I recalled:
PB Welch served on a ship called "Kroonland", for a brief time just near the close of the first World War.

By god, of all the tens of millions of WW1 faces, I FOUND MY GRANDFATHER. There he is, in that pictures of the medical crew of the
USS Kroonland. HE never saw that image; it was for official archive purposes, only. But there "I" am, standing, upper left.

I am my father's father's son. I never knew him in life. But I know him. He is me and I am you and we are all just people in struggle
against daily odds that, eventually, beat us flat into the ground.

Nationalism is rightly dead today. Long live, and forever come, new freedoms of expressions for all people of all of this Earth.

I'm crying again. No jokes now from me. Good day, World members?

"I wonder if he'd try, to never tell a lie, if Washington should come to life to-day?"

PS: as the tears stream, as they do as I write this postscript, know:
that this nation, made of freed men and women of ALL nations, is still a mighty nation,
ready to cohere again, if threatened from without. I love my luck for having been born =at all=,
much less none the less, for having been born an American, and alive today to tell you all, in Finland (an Axis Power)
or the Philipines (our virtual brothers), that WE ARE NOT PROUD. We are merely free by dint of hard work and a great amount of spilled blood.

Not unlike what many or most of you have been through: Life is not fair nor easy, anywhere!

 

[Reid Welch]

http://www.poetrycritical.net/read/38797/
_________________________

________________________________________

would any of you read it? if so, you are forever enmeshed, between India rubber'd fabric and silk rope netting,
floating, without a place to make a soft landfall.


THE POET is nothing but an "amanuensis". In this case, YOU become the subject.


Booth, now, is beyond ability to know or care, what I or you think, do, or say.
Thank Oblivion for that!

http://tinyurl.com/2ofayk
author recites the original letter.
note how it changed but slightly in its wordings ever after?
now, the moment is frozen; I cannot even access that story for retouches,
not that now, I'd even touch a single mark of Edwin Booth. Google Edwin Booth.
The circumstance is all true at root. This is why this story is, though fictional in details, true at heart.

 

[philf]

What a great thread of perfected poetry!

We are so happy if you are happy too!
Please pardon me for slightly altering your words for clarity and brevity, in order that I can run on like a bike
with a loose handlebar stem and no brakes?

Hahahaha... You, sir, are a card

 

[Zoot Katz]

My opinon of "poetry" is that it is best expressed in a tangible form for it to have merit in all languages.
Good architecture achieves this and even bad architecture mostly serves a purpose.

Dance, performance and visual arts can sometimes approach universal understanding.
But they often leave people scratching their heads instead of knowing its message in their core.

Good design is better than poetry because it bypasses the whole left/brain right brain thing and just feels right without concious judgement.

I used to think of my indoor rubber FF models as poetry in motion because of the glee they created in people who hadn't a clue what went into them.
Like poets, but unlike architects, I was able to ball up my mistakes and toss them in the trash.

 

[D-Man]

Humbug. Crazy crazy crazy, the moving finger writes. Slowly I turn, step by step, take a everything apart, wreck everything, step in dog crap, sniff shoes.

 

[Reid Welch]

What a great thread of perfected poetry!

We are so happy if you are happy too!
Please pardon me for slightly altering your words for clarity and brevity, in order that I can run on like a bike
with a loose handlebar stem and no brakes?

Hahahaha... You, sir, are a card

He haw! YES, a wicked, little card I am!

Poor Phil, victim of this....

 

[Reid Welch]

Humbug. Crazy crazy crazy, the moving finger writes. Slowly I turn, step by step, take a everything apart, wreck everything, step in dog crap, sniff shoes.

Is truth: he is a kool-kat beat poet!

One long line is good, and if I may be so rude, here's a variation.

Line breaks can make improvement, depending on your wants:

mere suggestion for D-man, THE natural poet of times (well, 1957, maybe??? :lol: )

Humbug. Crazy crazy crazy, the moving finger writes.
Slowly I turn, step by step, take a everything apart,
wreck everything, step in dog
crap, sniff shoes.

 

[Reid Welch]

[youtube]URNEJ_ygvQ4[/youtube]

I posted a "Casual encounters" ad on craigslist pretending to be a woman to find out what guys would do for potential sex.
I asked for poems and received over 100. I read a few of these poems back ...
I read a few of these poems back to the men who wrote them, live on the air.

This is not the best part of the show, but my radio recorder malfunctioned
and only recorded about 10 minutes of the show, so this was the best I have.

#91 - Most Viewed (Today) - Comedy - Germany
#19 - Most Viewed (Today) - Comedy - India
#21 - Most Viewed (Today) - Comedy - Israel
#41 - Most Viewed (Today) - Comedy
#99 - Most Viewed (Today) - Comedy - Mexico
#76 - Most Viewed (Today) - Comedy - France
#73 - Most Viewed (Today) - Comedy - Italy
#10 - Most Viewed (Today) - Comedy - South Korea
#45 - Most Viewed (Today) - Comedy - Netherlands
#30 - Most Viewed (Today) - Comedy - Poland
#74 - Most Viewed (Today) - Comedy - Brazil
#73 - Most Viewed (Today) - Comedy - Russia
#16 - Most Viewed (Today) - Comedy - Hong Kong
#18 - Most Viewed (Today) - Comedy - Taiwan
#16 - Most Viewed (Today) - Comedy - Czech Republic
#96 - Top Rated (Today) - Comedy
Category: Comedy

 

[Reid Welch]

[youtube]bV3CuTILysg[/youtube]

 

[Reid Welch]

I will write bad poems for kinky sex...

I will write in couplets, old,
of wants for kink in sex, well told.

Alas, I am not Swift in rhyme,
tho' in my frocks I keep good time.

And were She subject to the charms
of hero-pairs of lines, like arms

of steel, would'st I, with teeth partake,
and chip the gloss, or tooth, to break,

if only for some kinky sex
paid for by horrific verse.

You know—
—I could do much,

much worse.

___________________________



I love Swift and the Restoration Era poets in most particular;
though they be dead, they still cum clean.

 

[spinningmagnets]

A mute barmaid who's name was Gale,
On her breast wrote the prices of ale,
and on her behind,
for the sake of the blind,
were the same, but written in Braille

As the morticians daughter named Maddie,
re-mounted her lusty young laddie.
she said, in this coffin,
I've done this quite often
I've buried more stiffs than my daddie !

More?

As for accreditation,...I was in the Navy on the SSN-665, and these were old when Noah built the A-1

 

[Drunkskunk]

Hickory Dickory Dock
This girl was [CENSORED] [CENSORED]
[CENSORED] [CENSORED] of [CENSORED]
[CENSORED] [CENSORED] [CENSORED]
And bravley [CENSORED] [CENSORED]

Hickory Dickory Dee
This [CENSORED] was [CENSORED]
[CENSORED] [CENSORED] [CENSORED]
[CENSORED] [CENSORED] [CENSORED]
To [CENSORED] [CENSORED]
And Always [CENSORED] [CENSORED] [CENSORED]

[CENSORED] [CENSORED] peanuts [CENSORED]
[CENSORED] [CENSORED] [CENSORED]
[CENSORED] Third!
[CENSORED] [CENSORED] [CENSORED]
And [CENSORED] [CENSORED] [CENSORED]
And never again [CENSORED] [CENSORED]
[CENSORED] [CENSORED] [CENSORED] !

 

[Reid Welch]

Serious, pompous, SOCIAL COMMENTARY, lampoonery, cruel, kind, comic, sublime.

I THINK that what makes "poetry", poetry, is anything that "sublimes"
(google, please, " definition sublime ").

In my opinion, a beautiful, efficient ebike, is "a poetry".
So, too, is a graced man or woman, etc... knightmb, Drbass, and a hundred other active writers here.

Today I am in a wan mood. I am about to go to my first real trial, tomorrow in the AM.
More trials will come, very serious. I may end up in jail, dead, for all intents.
I am innocent. I am to be persecuted by the police forever after, no matter what comes.

Therefore, for the judge, I will be printing out this poem to follow, along with public deposition, found at The Cesspool, but actually from PC, where every post is un-editable, in-alterable and permanent, like a sworn testimony.

What follows requires that you, the reader, know of Edwin Booth. Google Edwin Booth?
He "writes" through me. I "become" the greatest tragic figure of all of the American stage's history.

It is a serious, yet tender, tragic =letter=

(recall, we ALL hate poor-retry)...
...but for you of graceful patience, you who are about to ponder...

The diary entry, (fiction, but not fiction) should, I hope, make you shed a tear,
distant as the sight is, the language has since, 1866, become less formal, less 'stagey'.

Nevertheless, he, the good Booth, is "still up there", somewhere, with no soft place to land.

Lowe really was giving those ten dollar balloon rides, at the very same time that Edwin, unsure, would attempt a public comeback. I put two great men together, in the form of a diary entry to Booth's long-gone father.

next form?

___________
commas will be my death after all---I forget them or misplace them, etc

 

[Reid Welch]

An early audio recitation (about a year old now) of the item below;
made before the diary entry was perfected-enough.
It is this author's voice, role-playing as Mr. Booth,
and is recited in a style characteristic of the era.
It only takes a minute of your life:
http://tinyurl.com/2ofayk
_______________________


Booth Wrote to His Dead

Father,

although you are
not here to read,

I write—to think,

to tell afresh
when we rejoin some day.

I have achieved a partial
ascent toward heaven;

from the Battery,
below Wall Street, in

Thaddeus Lowe's silk rope
enmeshed balloon.

For ten dollars' gold,
a flight aloft;
a full one thousand feet;

albeit tethered to the Earth.

A capstan
reeling let us rise. Horseflesh

winched us down again.

But, Father, oh, Father, what a height;
as like half-way there to you, it seems,

if I imagine rightly.

Myself and Mr. Lowe—such grins. The sounds
of life below—clarion and well
heard, "Say halloo to God for us."

(Some waggish man—hollow)

thought aroused my soul to plead;
to beg Charity for my brother,
for your son. I near resounded,

Willst thou forgive?

Alas, I checked myself—I choked.
Dear Father, I knew not
which way to shout.


Edwin Booth
New York City
May 22nd 1866

___________________
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