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Seeing as it's poetry day

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By *oggone OP   Man  over a year ago

Derry

I came across this a few weeks ago, maybe others might like it as well.

I want a red dress.

I want it flimsy and cheap,

I want it too tight, I want to wear it

until someone tears it off me.

I want it sleeveless and backless,

this dress, so no one has to guess

what's underneath. I want to walk down

the street past Thrifty's and the hardware store

with all those keys glittering in the window,

past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old

donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers

slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,

hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.

I want to walk like I'm the only

woman on earth and I can have my pick.

I want that red dress bad.

I want it to confirm

your worst fears about me,

to show you how little I care about you

or anything except what

I want. When I find it, I'll pull that garment

from its hanger like I'm choosing a body

to carry me into this world, through

the birth-cries and the love-cries too,

and I'll wear it like bones, like skin,

it'll be the goddamned

dress they bury me in.

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By (user no longer on site)  over a year ago

Good thread, good poem!

I posted this a while ago, under a different incarnation:

Keats is Dead so Fuck me From Behind

Keats is dead so fuck me from behind

Slowly and with carnal purpose

Some black midwinter afternoon

While all the children are walking home from school

Peel my stockings down with your teeth

Coleridge is dead and Auden too

Of laughing in an overcoat

Shelley died at sea and his heart wouldn’t burn

& Wordsworth……………………………………………..

They never found his body

His widow mad with grief, hammering nails into an empty meadow

Byron, Whitman, our dog crushed by the garage door

Finger me slowly

In the snowscape of your childhood

Our dead floating just below the surface of the earth

Bend me over like a substitute teacher

& pump me full of shivering arrows

O emotional vulnerability

Bosnian folk-song, birds in the chimney

Tell me what you love when you think I’m not listening

Wallace Stevens’s mother is calling him in for dinner

But he’s not coming, he’s dead too, he died sixty years ago

And nobody cared at his funeral

Life is real

And the days burn off like leopard print

Nobody, not even the dead can tell me what to do

Eat my pussy from behind

Bill Manhire’s not getting any younger

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By (user no longer on site)  over a year ago

I like them both, dark and weird as they are. What the hell's wrong with me

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By (user no longer on site)  over a year ago


"I like them both, dark and weird as they are. What the hell's wrong with me "

Have to agree with you Sally both weird and dark but throughly enjoyable

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By *adame BWoman  over a year ago

C'est moi Boudoir

Great poetry.

A verse from John Donne's poem.

To his mistress going to bed.

License my roving hands, and let them go

Before, behind, between, above, below.

O my America! my new-found-land,

My kingdom, safeliest when with one man manned,

My mine of precious stones, my empery,

How blest am I in this discovering thee!

To enter in these bonds is to be free;

Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.

Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee,

As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be,

To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use.

Madame B

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By *oggone OP   Man  over a year ago

Derry

Why not, here's another for the pot

A sweet disorder in the dress

Kindles in clothes a wantonness;

A lawn about the shoulders thrown

Into a fine distraction;

An erring lace, which here and there

Enthrals the crimson stomacher;

A cuff neglectful, and thereby

Ribands to flow confusedly;

A winning wave, deserving note,

In the tempestuous petticoat;

A careless shoe-string, in whose tie

I see a wild civility:

Do more bewitch me, than when art

Is too precise in every part.

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By *ichael McCarthyMan  over a year ago

Lucan

God I love poetry...

..

..

.

Roses are red.

Violets are blue.

I'm into scat.

Do you need a poo?

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By (user no longer on site)  over a year ago


"God I love poetry...

..

..

.

Roses are red.

Violets are blue.

I'm into scat.

Do you need a poo? "

The poems were beautiful then you wrote that ...you brat

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By (user no longer on site)  over a year ago


"Why not, here's another for the pot

A sweet disorder in the dress

Kindles in clothes a wantonness;

A lawn about the shoulders thrown

Into a fine distraction;

An erring lace, which here and there

Enthrals the crimson stomacher;

A cuff neglectful, and thereby

Ribands to flow confusedly;

A winning wave, deserving note,

In the tempestuous petticoat;

A careless shoe-string, in whose tie

I see a wild civility:

Do more bewitch me, than when art

Is too precise in every part. "

I like this one a lot

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By *ichael McCarthyMan  over a year ago

Lucan


"God I love poetry...

..

..

.

Roses are red.

Violets are blue.

I'm into scat.

Do you need a poo?

The poems were beautiful then you wrote that ...you brat "

I was channeling Beckett there!

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By (user no longer on site)  over a year ago


"God I love poetry...

..

..

.

Roses are red.

Violets are blue.

I'm into scat.

Do you need a poo?

The poems were beautiful then you wrote that ...you brat

I was channeling Beckett there! "

I could tell

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By *ichael McCarthyMan  over a year ago

Lucan


"God I love poetry...

..

..

.

Roses are red.

Violets are blue.

I'm into scat.

Do you need a poo?

The poems were beautiful then you wrote that ...you brat

I was channeling Beckett there!

I could tell "

It hurt like fuck!

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By (user no longer on site)  over a year ago

Id like to scuttel your puttel

Spiddle your paddle

Tickle your wickle

And twittel your toddle

Stroodle your doodle

Cromple your string

Brundle your strundel

And fondle your ding

Thank you

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By (user no longer on site)  over a year ago


"God I love poetry...

..

..

.

Roses are red.

Violets are blue.

I'm into scat.

Do you need a poo?

The poems were beautiful then you wrote that ...you brat

I was channeling Beckett there!

I could tell

It hurt like fuck! "

Oh wow the pain came through

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By (user no longer on site)  over a year ago

A dog wandered into our garden one day,

A friendly old mutt, didn't look like a stray.

We never discovered whence he had come,

But we brushed him and fed him and the kids called him Rum.

Now as family members, even dogs must work hard,

So we put Rum on duty next door in our yard,

Bright eyed and watchful by night and by day,

But not much of a guard dog, I'm sorry to say.

He barked at the cats and he'd bark at a toad,

He barked at the cattle outside on the road,

He barked at the horses - so where did he fail?

You see, Rum liked people, and he just wagged his tail.

He liked the yard labour, an amiable bunch.

They fed our dog tidbits and scraps from their lunch.

Rum wolfed it all down, but to our dismay

He seemed to get fatter with each passing day.

Then one night when Rum was laid at his ease,

A burglar crept in just as quiet as you please.

He saw no alarms, heard now siren howling,

No guard dog for sure, there'd be barking and growling.

But Rum was awake and he'd seen him alright,

Delighted with company this time of the night,

He flew through the yard, his new friend to greet,

And his weight bowled the burglar right off of his feet.

The intruder got up and ran off with a wail

And Rum right behind him still wagging his tail.

He departed the yard he'd come in to burgle

Like a champion athlete clearing a hurdle.

But Rum couldn't jump gates, so sadly instead

He picked up the thief's wallet and went back to bed.

Next morning the evidence everyone viewed,

When Rum brought it to us, (just a little bit chewed).

Once given the wallet, the police didn't fail

To capture the burglar and put him in jail.

His confession like wildfire spread through the town,

How a big vicious guard dog had knocked the thief down.

We all howled with laughter when we heard the story,

And Rum was our hero, he was basking in glory.

There's been no attempts since to burgle our yard,

For everyone knows now that Rum is on guard..

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By *oggone OP   Man  over a year ago

Derry


"Why not, here's another for the pot

A sweet disorder in the dress

Kindles in clothes a wantonness;

A lawn about the shoulders thrown

Into a fine distraction;

An erring lace, which here and there

Enthrals the crimson stomacher;

A cuff neglectful, and thereby

Ribands to flow confusedly;

A winning wave, deserving note,

In the tempestuous petticoat;

A careless shoe-string, in whose tie

I see a wild civility:

Do more bewitch me, than when art

Is too precise in every part.

I like this one a lot "

Me too.

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