Re: a comment on A Better God by Dovina	24-Oct-04/1:46 AM
You're both wrong. Imagine a beautifull statue, 50% of which is smeared in stools. The statue is in a boothe with a microphone connected. Every time someone praises the statue, a robot arm connected to a moist wipe removes 50% of the stools on the statue. Every time someone insults the statue, 50% of the statue that remains unstooled is enstooled. It is easy to see that the amount the piece is insulted or praised is intimately linked to its beauty. Unless you consider the people looking at the work and praising/insulting it, and the microphone, and the stool cannons, as just as much a part of the piece as the statue. In which case you'd need a meta-microphone, and a meta-audience, and a meta-stool cannon and a meta-moist wipe pointed at the audience. Meta-meta-wipes? Fuck off! Either way you fail.
Re: a comment on A Better God by Dovina	23-Oct-04/12:01 PM
You're such a dim.
Re: !!! by Jezabele-In-Hell	19-Oct-04/2:21 PM
This is a disastrous attempt at poetry. It is among the worst I have ever read. The subject couldn't be less original, and the way you have written about it is utterly unremarkable. Your work is completely devoid of alliteration, simile, reification or any such literary devices. It is devoid of rhyme, devoid of imagery, and devoid of punctuation. The language used is whoppingly dull, and the overriding impression it gives is one of unbelievable mindlessness. The arbitrary line breaks and use of repetition are the only things that separate this bulgingly stupid dumpling from a blob of prose. Congratulations! -10-
Re: Fast Dreams by cuddlytiger17	18-Oct-04/6:56 AM
"Here is found a paradox in that during the latter third of the nineteenth century, in a period characterized by the vilification of the tramp, there is a concomitant process occurring that also eulogized them." from "The American Hobo" by Colin Beesley
Re: a comment on I hate Haiku's. Bombs away. by Rollsoftoiletpaper	17-Oct-04/5:18 AM
1. What 2. No well maybe thats your problem 3. Really, well its my privaledge to parp on your unfunny poetry. 4. I didn't give it a 0, you fucking clown. Click on 'voting details' to find out who did.
Re: a comment on For Beth, after anal intercourse by zodiac	17-Oct-04/2:49 AM
Dead? Yes. But often when the weight of the world hangs heavy on my shoulders, and Gatwick Village seems like such a desperate, lonely place, I look up to the sky, cradling my drooping buttocks in the palms of my hands, half-expecting, half-hoping, to see him soaring high above the clouds, red cape billowing insanely out behind. Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No you wanker! It's superman! I know he's in a better place, wherever he is. Goodbye Christopher McReeves. Goodbye.
Re: a comment on I hate Haiku's. Bombs away. by Rollsoftoiletpaper	16-Oct-04/8:21 PM
1. This is not a Haiku, it's a Meta-ku, as you would know if you'd spent more time reading the pop-up help and less time funneling beetles into your cock. 2. Stop posting.
Re: Old Man by Rollsoftoiletpaper	16-Oct-04/6:11 PM
Once I woke up to find that a thin old man was pressing his sagging buttocks against my face. "Who are you?!" I muffledly asked, frantically secreting from my Panic-nozzle. "Parp!" replied the buttocks.
Re: No Single Tear by Enchantres	16-Oct-04/3:58 PM
lol
Re: a comment on One True Instant by Dovina	12-Oct-04/2:50 PM
God you're dull.
Re: a comment on One True Instant by Dovina	12-Oct-04/3:10 AM
I am extremely disappointed in you, Dovina.
Re: Room 34 Ashford Hospital by Caducus	11-Oct-04/5:46 AM
Oh goodness, your swear has sent shivers of naughtiness up and down my spine. Did you know that Hobos have a top speed of four miles per hour?
Re: a comment on One True Instant by Dovina	11-Oct-04/5:44 AM
Ah, Wilfred Owen. How many times since year 10 have we laughed at your melodramatic poetry? At least 5. Probably more.
Re: For Beth, after anal intercourse by zodiac	11-Oct-04/5:40 AM
Sometimes you produce the most awful bungling bogstanton.
Re: a comment on One True Instant by Dovina	11-Oct-04/5:07 AM
I don't think it's always a "great thing" that readers interpret your work in different ways. In most cases, that happens because you have inadequately conveyed what you were trying to convey. John Keats said that poetry "...should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost as a remembrance". Most of the poemes I like touch a nerve, and by skillful use of language they really capture the essence of what they're trying to say. They communicate it so well, that it seems like your own remembrance, rather than something someone else thinks. One example is Wilfred Owen's "Dulce et decorum est". Here is a dumpling: "GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And floundering like a man in fire or lime.-- Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light As under a green sea, I saw him drowning." I was far too old to serve in the trenches of WWI, but the poeme made me feel as if I was ACTUALLY there, and it had been one of MY comrades who had broken wind. Food for thought? Thanks for listening.
Re: a comment on Clerihews (here you go, Nicholas Jones!) by Yardbird	11-Oct-04/4:44 AM
"I will admit that clerihews are not known for quality, but for wit." You whopping idiot.
Re: a comment on Black Woman by jroday	7-Oct-04/8:20 AM
I know what you mean. Some relationships make me feel trapped: http://tinyurl.com/4nw76
Re: a comment on I Love You by Blindpoetry	7-Oct-04/7:29 AM
"who you tryin' to get crazy with, esse? Don't you know I go loco on you?"
Re: a comment on I Love You by Blindpoetry	5-Oct-04/11:41 PM
you idiot
Re: a comment on Brogues are best by Stephen Robins	5-Oct-04/7:55 PM
It pains me to relate the tale Of how my loins became so frail. 'twas long ago, when just like you, I was young, and foolish too. My misspent youth was Poulaine-free: I'm not the man I used to be! How spritely I did pounce in shame! Unburden'd by the great poulaine! Leaping gaily through the town, O'er pointed rail and skulking browne*, 'till one morn my footing failed And 'pon an fence I was impaled! Ne'er again the brogueish sheath To cling upon my underneath: A pointed shoe now does protrude From my mangled, dangled lewd. *browne n. An ethnic hobo or street urchin; a stain.