I admire your disregard for the stale conventions of punctuation. It makes the poem so much more ambiguous and less eloquent. Excellent! I also like the way the sudden mention of a parrot seems so wacky and obscure. -10-

That last quatrain almost sounds like another language. "Qu'est nest breastvest" Well crafted; a NINE shall you have. and do this: My inner pain shall forever my burden be.

hey - its not bad at all. are you trying to loose the wings?

Not as bad, I think, as the scores you have thus far. I will total them and add one for good luck. eight.

Why did the god kill this man? For his pride perhaps. Did he not think the man would learn the futility of his ways? Was he jealous - is it a jealous god? Who was the lone man? It is the first man who realizes he has no one to save him?

This would make a beautiful alt-country song. I tried it out on guitar and it sounds good with a few minor tweaks for the flow, namely in the chorus... i.e. - I never liked the rain as much as you (-did)

I don't know were this idea came from but here it is if you like it that kool and if you dont that's kool to.

Your gran sounds really ace! I think your being a little presumptive assuming that you will also make it to heaven given your dedication to writing smutty poems on this website.

If your poetry was wallpaper it would be coating the walls of Bobby Sands's prison cell in the Maze. Blessed with a SupremeDreamer and a side of Rockmage.

You come at work from a completely wrong angle. If it wasn't for people working in organistaions (which you unfortuantely regard as a horrible fearful place) you would not have the tools to craft such realistic aardvarks, & you would not have razors which you so mistakenly spurn. Indeed without the organistation of labour there would be no money to buy your sculptures. To regard the process of the making of money as some form of bottom sniffing exercise shows the degree of churlishness that can only be espoused by a vagrant hippy whom probably worked for a company and was shown to be of low maoral and spiritual fibre. This results in the miasma between hippies and the real world in which bosses are facists and workers are prostitutes. In other words if you had been a successful user of the orgaistion of labour you would not be in the position of being a proper bearded cunt.

with kudos to zodiac... "outweigh the bad" 7,360 "all the love we shared" 2,340 "stabbed me in the back" 4,020 "The worst thing I've ever done" 789 "knife * into your heart" 70 "I would give anything" 23,600 "pain burning inside" 83 "make me hate myself" 368 "I remember when we were together" 153 "when we were together" 140,000 "stick out so much" 429 "I would do anything to make you" 290 "If I could change the past" 286 "I would do whatever I had to" 205 "make the good times last" 379 "make the gootimes last" --> 0 <-- WHATEVER YOU DO, don't fix the misspelling of "good times"! It appears to be the only original phrase in this pome (if left misspelled).

You share a father with your granny? I knew you looked inbred, but I had no idea you were THAT inbred.

I really liked this poem, but I thought your choice of rhymes (see dance/chance, cry/fly, etc.) was a little pop-music and forced, especially letting several phrases run over just to accomodate them. So I wrote you a little poem to show how rhyme can be original and flow a little better, even in a Christian poem. I hope you like it. Even more, I hope that since you have commented favorably on several of my poems (none of which is explicitly scatalogical) that you might give my suggestions a little more attention than you do the scatalogical poetes on the ranker. True, I was raised a Romish Papist, but through no fault of my own, and believe me when I say my heart more truly follows the protestant persuasion. So, here's the poem: >>>>ON OUR MOTHER'S THIGHS<<<< God, if you believe what's Christian, Came into Mary like a piston To beget His kid (so they say he did, And who are we if we call it fiction?) There must have been saintly light from Luna, A room that smelled (faintly, though) of tuna, And a Holy Seed (to complete the deed) In a spoonful of pearly Immaculate Spuna.

Dude, you dare smear of the Spuna in the same bun as CLS? Are you mad, you've done us a severe injustice here, you trout speckle.

Christ, this is a deflating pickle getting gangraped by some spilt mustard if I've ever seen such a thing. Congratulations on your custom idiocy, I hope it's contagious, and you kill yourself and millions of others that could care less! :)

nice poem. hope that's what you were going for.

I say this with the most sincere and deepest sense............ you suck!!!!.... probably in a literal sense too.

I bet you think you're heaven bound?

Dave, the only thing mysterious about you is how your bike hasn't exploded yet spraying speckled bananna seat all about the park trail.

By the way asshat? (urbane savvy) Would you say you suck in the illiteral sense? Because you do, and frightenly so. your poetry is so fucking unbelievably boring and strait, you could wind a fart.