Sexual yearning and defrosted penis frozen in mastubatory rigor mortis... But people hate to much. Really. Simplistic expression is cool.. but sometimes the reader is left wanting more. Blessed with a seven.

Procreation meets capitalism. BEHOLD THE AMERICAN DREAM MY FELLOWS! Behold the price of gas and the penis based obsessions with guzzling hummers!!! Behold the value of the soul directly equated with the value of our dollar!! Behold our children bred to work, brought about by government approved alcoholic adventures!!! Minds befuddled during fetal formation, only to be further augmented by piss poor education. Amen. GOD BLESS AMERICA!! Seven.

Anybody care for a split heard omelette? Six.

Life as lived is formed by actions whose roots derive directly from thought. Therefor reality is a state which is defined individually from the perspectives of various minds. We simply denote certain attributes to constitute an absolute factual "reality" because many folks share common delusions concerning specific attributes of "reality".

half.italian, Einstein said that mass dictates (warps) the fabric of space, and warps in the fabric of space dictate the motion of massive objects. Very true... Good poem.

Gorgeous! Love the wheat-sack and the vanilla - a horn of plenty.

'brownful' - beautiful. This poem might have been written for me. Was it? Was it?

How quickly can you recite this? I love the skipping beat. It gives the poem a sort of it-might-be-meaningful-but-who-cares feel, almost childish. Makes me think you're the sort of person who says "dah-ling" to everyone you meet.

The darkened hem and the golden swords are beautiful visions. Your image poetry is much better than the less tangible stuff you write. You've got a stop-start rhyme system going on here, I think it would be better with a couple of soft rhymes in the second stanza to give a bit more rhythm. But that could just be me. What are you up to these days?

Great. "Is it sticks or bats, or hearts that beat" is a fabulous line. Did you mean to abandon the rhyme scheme with "cracks"?

How curious.

lol

mmmmm...Zombies! This sounds like me before coffee.

LMAO. Oh god... yeah, Dora the explorer is certainly one shitty childrens show.. NOW.. if they made this into an dora episode... I just might have an interest. Ten baby ten. Goddamn funny.

AGAIN... What was the point to this imagery? dull and uncreative imagery, btw. What the fuck are you saying? Are you attempting to seduce us poets with cute juxtaposition of hallmark imagery resorted into stanza and rhyme? I'm repulsed... please don't tell me you tried your best, even when I was pimpled and thirteen years old my crappy teen angst pennings had a point, an over-all message, no matter how worthless or dis-illusioned it was: IT WAS THERE... and for the most part discernable. Zero.

It is never pleasant for a prostitute to open her legs when she is not wearing panties and has forgotten to douche and annoint with scented oil the rotten twat she possesses. While this poem was atleast mildy amusing? I was left wondering if you ever experienced having to rely on your legs to get from point a to point b... You certainly never got caught in the rain with a ripped tent and no deserted spot of dirt to rest your wearied body upon... You never beheld this "freedom" you speak about. This product? Is jismatic illusions sprouted from a weak imagination. But... it atleast was amusing. Blessed with a four.

While some might say the rhymes are forced? It doesn't matter to me. I can't see how getting redundantly creative with the bunch/lunch rhyme would have improved this poem. It realistically expressed how a real rex would act, it beheld my hatred of barney like Jesus looking with disgust at his foreskin-- And most importantly: It made me laugh. Really hard. And you can't succesfully poke fun at Barney without imitating his classic pimple rhyming schemes... I love you, you love me.... *the sound of a single loaded shotgun and brains splattering on the wall*.... Barney? .... fuuuckkk yoouu youuu...lil...retard..brats...blehhh.

Squatter love is like sex with a tetanus glove. Indeed. Hrmm... I'd say 7.5, but lets just round it to an eight.

This should have been labeled as the future manifestation of haiku in retro jetpack theme. Eight.

You know what a rock is? really? No, not your sad attempt at philosophising: A foundation for a great house. A solid weapon of vengeance. The character of my penis when Angelina Jolie visits me in my dreams. A means to pass time by skipping it across bodies of water. A primate tool to crack hard shells and thus add more protein to it's diet... ultimately leading to larger brain size and walking on two feet, meat consumption and ultimately.... Your shitty attempts at philosophizing. Zero.