Excellent!

Nice, but I agree that you should drop the magical mystery part.

(Diva) Shaliqua is the name of one of Jabba the Hutt's dancing slaves. In other words, it's some utterly inexperienced white guy's idea of what an ethnic name looks like. But then, you don't get many ethnics up to Vermont, do you? Extra points for being a poem about a Negro's lips. And it's not badly written. -10-

This is about an entirely differnt thing than I though it was going to be...

This poem is not addressed to you. You may come into it briefly, But no one will find you here, no one. You will have changed before the poem will. Even while you sit there, unmovable, You have begun to vanish. And it does no matter. The poem will go on without you. It has the spurious glamor of certain voids. It is not sad, really, only empty. Once perhaps it was sad, no one knows why. It prefers to remember nothing. Nostalgias were peeled from it long ago. Your type of beauty has no place here. Night is the sky over this poem. It is too black for stars. And do not look for any illumination. You neither can nor should understand what it means. Listen, it comes with out guitar, Neither in rags nor any purple fashion. And there is nothing in it to comfort you. Close your eyes, yawn. It will be over soon. You will forge the poem, but not before It has forgotten you. And it does not matter. It has been most beautiful in its erasures. -Justice-

Fuck ya'll. Just vote.

I hope someone breaks your hands and you hit your head really hard on a curb in eastern Europe. Love you.

English translation?

This poem is practically unfinishable. Sure, you have about triple the average poemranker use-vocabulary, but this is all compound main and subordinate clauses jammed together higgledy-piggledy. It needs about ten more periods, and it needs to lose that awful "Present participling through something, I present indicative myself" sentence construction - and any clauses that begin with "As" as well. I'm wondering, have you tried to read this out loud? And I don't think "From pages of Larkin I pondered On the bleakness" is a valid way of saying that.

What are you trying to state about London? - that it is a shithole full of depressed workers, perverted English Gents and corpulent Americans? What about the scrofulous mess who is making all these fairly obvious characterisations?, the fucking mess who has never been to Dunhill on St James's and smoked their splendid pipe tobacco. And, for that matter, never enjoyed the splendid stewed cheese of Simpsons in the City? I daresay he is guiding a black man up his arse as I write these words.

This is the most pretentious guff ever to have been emitted outside of Channel 4's lesbian unit. Splattered Faces would be a better title.

Excellent!

Leaves a nice aftertaste. Some details - the semicolon/colon maybe better a dash/semicolon and maybe "I'll not be bent" instead of the rent line - something about that sequence with "lent"... perhaps work "relent" in somehow?

Schloken meine pimmel bitte.

this is more a song than a poem...to be read aloud in the style of dylan's homesick blues...there's no big or clever words or word play but it kinda...SKANKS

Parts of London are almost as filthy as Larkin

I was a vegetarian in the late 60’s. It was rough. No Amy’s or Eastman’s at the A&P. I’d go out with my friends to eat Wherever they wanted. Mostly, we went to Pink’s. I’d ask for a kraut dog, extra mustard, no wiener. They’d hand me the order with The wiener on the side. I’d feed the wiener to a stray dog then commune with my friends. One night, an [old, black woman]* taking my order Stopped, put her hand on her hip and said, "I ain’t got no time for such foolishness, next"!** Her righteousness strong and husky. I’ve remembered that voice all these years. I hear it each time I ask for something different from what life decides. Every time** I want Respect, Sympathy, Love, Faithfulness, I hear that (put new, different adj.s here to describe the woman)woman repeating those words and I know It's God talking. Telling all of us fools lining up with our own Special orders- 'I ain’t got the time…'. Now, forty years later, I understand what that Voice was telling me-- God don’t have time for all your Foolishness. You want a Kraut dog, extra mustard, no wiener? Keep it simple stupid, pull the wienie out yourself. You want the good life? Well alright then You got life, the rest is up to you. Make it good. *describe her 'oldness' to me her 'blackness'. As old as... black like... **Does the puncuation go on the outside or the inside of a quote? I always forget. *** Every time is two words. Change the title. The Weiner, or Pink's, or Sometimes God Is a Hot Dog Salesman, etc... I like poems that sound like someone speaking, but all those ands, thats, howevers, distract. It's also nice to leave some of the info out, so the reader feels he's in the know. Just suggestions, take what you like.

yer love it good work we nead more like you

see the man in the anorak writing poems on PR. good one 9/10

not everyone has a shit life like you !!! like your poems though