Second stanza was great, but like a good burger it's trapped between bad buns.

Look, I understand, how you feel, I get it all the time. But be serious, I don't have a clue who you are. Not bad on the poetry side though, deserving of a 7

'imperfect' not unperfect.

Swit.

Horus, I agree. I'll need to give it somne more thought. Thanks.

Horus, I agree. The buns are not totally bad but there certainly is quite a bit of room for improvement. Suggestions are welcome. Thanks.

This poem is below your over-all writing ability, lil-furry-poofball.. did you regress? Cmon man, would you add some spice and atleast get the tip of my toes to fuckin sizzle?

As far as wanking poems go, this ones pretty funny.. specially like the lines, My south paw lover. My secret choke. My rare strange glover Accept my blessing of seven.

You've finally written something that got me feelin hippy go happy sippin acid 'n gettin groovy. Nice work, though I think you could make the last stanza better in someway, it's gold to me. Blessed with ten.

The many wonders, sensations, and assorted smells of the almighty twat & its effect 'pon slithering snakes make for good readin anyday- really liked this stanza: "My spent seed gumming up a future in you Worshipped, your insight smells of old blood." If I'm not mistaken, couldn't this be labeled a ghazal? Anyway, blessed with nine.

Are all of your poems about paralyzed acorns?

Glitters like a petite, fine cut gem, diffracting a few spilt rays of light into a platinum flare. Its been a good long time since you last post before this piece- nice comeback. Blessed with ten.

Wonder why you'd post this under a fake look-alike of one of my pen-names... -shrug- I had assumed that such tricksy impostures are done in order to ridicule.. but whatever- aside from that, I likes it, I smokes it, I crave constant injections of it while waiting for perpetual IV drips. Blessed with nine.

You've out-done my trade mark soup metaphors, and now I remain thoroughly deflated in moldy moistness 'n gritty soil. Take this nine and leave me be- hunched in the sulky droop-lip posture of defeat & smarting humility.

You'd never fit all the arbitrary linebreaks onto the paper anyway.

Over all.. its different. I mean to say that its apart from your usual style of penning; its a good read never-the-less. Blessed with eight.

Yum.

Sometimes when I read one of your poems, CLS, I imagine you thinking of something pretty mundane, like "I don't know what will happen," and then through a combination of ridiculous aerial convolutions, multiple BabelFish iterations, and Shift+F7 abuse mutating it into "the impacts remain to be defined," because that's more poetic, after all. Those are the good days. The bad days I imagine you actually speaking like this, a thought which never fails, even in public, to render me suddenly impossibly incontinent, prone to childish tears, and oddly desperate for my mother's left dug. This isn't even thesaurophilic, but rather a hopelessly brown example of a 100-word use vocabulary using the wrong word at every opportunity. If you never speak/type the words 'that which' again, you'll be doing yourself an enormous favor. -10-

Is there such thing as a non-boring sonnet? Yes, observe: http://www.poemranker.com/poem-details.jsp?id=99447

I even make myself WE(e)P.