Re: Mississipi Murder by scitz	2-Jun-03/8:59 AM
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Re: Dreary Mindsets by Christina	2-Jun-03/3:38 AM
Great poeme! You eloquently express the mind-numbing boredom of a David "the new Houdini" Blaine show. How ironic that while he's absorbed in his self-important stunts, his audience also just wants to escape: to any place that doesn't include David Blaine.
Re: All Fours by Christina	2-Jun-03/3:31 AM
Is this a poeme about doggy position sex? God'swife would love this.
Re: a comment on Aftermath of a boston marriage by Sugar Victim	2-Jun-03/3:29 AM
"I would of given you sixes and sevens." would have. It's.
Re: Four Chapters from the Detective Plum files by horus8	2-Jun-03/3:17 AM
This is some kind of bizarre conglomeration of what you've inferred from the extracts of the Grandfather story and Ironside.
Re: ILLusion in Falsity by Sugar Victim	2-Jun-03/2:56 AM
You claim it's an endless pattern that she goes from guy to guy. But so far she's only been with a finite number of guys. There are infinitely many incompatible infinite patterns compatible with that finite past. For example, you think her history of sleeping with worthless guys again and again indicates a pattern called 'bedhopping'. However, it equally well indicates a pattern called 'quedhopping', defined as: sleeping with worthless guys up to and including 2nd June 2003, and physically transmuting into a sentient lichen thereafter. Hence, nothing about her past history determines that she's bedhopping rather than quedhopping. I think you have more important things to worry about concerning your friend. You'd better go and check she's not already started the transmutation.
Re: a comment on Plucking hearts and banjo by horus8	1-Jun-03/8:25 PM
I must confess I hadn't realised 'marinescience and field and stream' had anything to do with counterfactuals. Let's dig up David Lewis and cram a fish down his rotting throat and see what he has to say about it!
Re: a comment on How I want to be by Felzpoet	1-Jun-03/8:06 PM
You're right!
Re: How I want to be by Felzpoet	1-Jun-03/7:28 PM
Many of your poemes seem to be based on a rather curious assumption: that you have some property P that is neither an occurrent property nor a disposition; nor is it supervenient on any delineable set of your other properties. It is unclear what such a property could be. It's a common enough mistake to make, Felzpoet. You have misinterpreted your desperate longing as some kind of indescribable compatibility or even destiny. The sooner you work out that there is no such thing as being meant for someone, and the sooner you work out that there is nothing inherent about you that makes you compatible with people you desperately long for, the sooner a) you will feel better b) you will concentrate on an activity more worthwhile c) the members of poemeranker will stop having to read your terrible poetry. I hope you realise it is for your own good as much as the good of everyone around you.
Re: a comment on Plucking hearts and banjo by horus8	1-Jun-03/6:49 PM
What theory of counterfactual conditionals do you subscribe to? I am a magic ersatzist.
Re: You Left Me by Cali	1-Jun-03/7:44 AM
I'll tell you what really fucking annoys me about pieces of crap like this. The whole reason poemes with simple rhyming schemes that crudely express an obvious and uninteresting emotion are seen as deep and meaningful and beautiful is because people associate them with children, because it's the kind of poeme children write, and when children do something sad inexpertly it's beautiful and meaningful etc.. But you aren't a child, so when you do it it isn't beautiful or meaningful, it's just stupid. Stop doing it.
Re: You Left Me by Cali	1-Jun-03/7:41 AM
A A B B C C D D BLAH BLAH SHUT UP
Re: Dream by Cali	1-Jun-03/7:40 AM
A A B B C C D D 0
Re: Mummy by Cali	1-Jun-03/7:39 AM
Dead people don't become angels. Even the most basic grasp of theology would tell you that. This is also at least the second poeme in which you have rhymed "love" with "above" in some insipid reference to heaven.
Re: Dont break my heart by Cali	1-Jun-03/7:36 AM
The worst thing I have ever read. 0.
Re: Midnight Dance by Deborah Carter	1-Jun-03/5:54 AM
-=AIDS=-
Re: a comment on The Blooding by Mr Pig	31-May-03/4:27 AM
Could you possibly have said anything gayer? If the only thing you can think of to say about this poeme is that it is "beautiful", you shouldn't have said anything at all. You plainly don't even have any idea what you mean when you say "beautiful", except that it's a vague combination of stultifyingly simplistic moralising, facile childhood reminiscence and arbitrary linebreaks. And if you "don't know those words", how the fuck do you know that "very few words cam describe how beautiful this poem"?
Re: a comment on Obsequies by horus8	31-May-03/4:23 AM
Whateva ho.
Re: Obsequies by horus8	30-May-03/7:04 PM
---Plum opened the miniature door and stepped inside. He was in what seemed to be a reception room; against one wall there was a booth occupied by an obese young man, and ahead of him a wide corridor quickly turned a corner. The room was small and lamp- lit; the dim light and yellowed wallpaper, thought Plum, made it somehow seem underground. ---There were vast piles of coats in every conceivable place. Space had been cleared in the middle of the room, but Plum had to step over heaps of dark cloth before he even had enough room to shut the door. The highest of the coat-towers loomed, threatening to topple over. In his mind Plum knocked into one and it came tumbling down, pressing on him and making him breathe musty air. ---The man, whom Plum thought of as the attendant, was intently staring at something underneath the counter of the booth and fidgeting. Perhaps he was playing with a puzzle; at any rate he did not acknowledge Plum, and he seemed to be holding his breath. ---“Pardon me,” said Plum. “May I leave my coat here?” ---The attendant frowned, still concentrating on the activity. After a moment he let out a long rushing sigh, then finally looked up at Plum, somewhat accusingly. ---“One pays inside. This is the cloakroom.” ---“Yes, I thought it was,” explained Plum. “I wondered whether I might leave my coat here?” He gestured vaguely at the piles as if to justify his question. ---The attendant glanced underneath the counter again, then back at Plum. He seemed to make a calculation. “I'm afraid this room is full. You'll have to put it in the back.” He jerked his thumb toward a doorway Plum had not noticed; it was in the booth's shadow, framed by stacks of coats. ---“A-ha, thank you.” Plum took a step toward the doorway, then hesitated and looked to the attendant to make sure he had properly understood. However, the man was again absorbed in his unknown occupation, and Plum felt that further questions would somehow provoke him. ---He made his way around the front of the booth, stepping over a discarded fur. There was a thick wall of coats just inside the doorway, long enough so that no light escaped underneath them, and for all Plum knew the next room was completely dark. He turned sideways and pushed against the mass with his shoulder; it briefly yielded, but only to swing back and bear down on him. He had a sudden fear that if he continued to push, it would simply surround him and he would be unable to move. ---After a final heave, though, he was through, and he found himself standing in a long, narrow chamber with a low ceiling, lit by an exposed bulb. Around the perimeter, forming a rounded oblong, was a high railing, onto which hangers were affixed; the hangers, of course, bore coats of all sorts. The space between the rails was not great, but Plum could move comfortably enough, and he began to look for a free hanger onto which to hang his own overcoat. However, the coats were very densely packed, and it was impossible to tell which hangers, if any, were empty. He supposed he would have to reach blindly into them, though he felt a sinking reluctance, for no reason he could name. ---Grandfather slept restlessly. He had finished working for today, or perhaps he had finished yesterday's work and there was no more for today. It was of course possible that there would never be more. However, he was prepared; he wore his vest, though it was not his usual practice to retire clothed. He was glad he wore it; the vest gave him an excited, nearly sick feeling, and he knew he could rely on it. And without having to touch it, he knew too his razor was in its holster, secured to the vest. At times he felt an unbearable urge to grasp the smooth bone handle and hold it tightly, but he did not act on it. Once it occurred to him that perhaps he could not move his hand at all, but he dared not risk trying, in case he turned out to be right; and since there was no outstanding work, there seemed no good reason to do so. ---Although he had been sleeping for some time, Grandfather did not dream. At least he did not remember ever dreaming, though he often half recalled events, and thinking about a recollection later it sometimes seemed to have been a dream. Now, though, he knew he was dreaming, because in his recollections his heart did not beat, and his hands did not twitch, and he had not seen so clearly in a very long time. The mucus rose in his throat; it was warm and thick. He felt an overwhelming anticipation. ---In his dream, Grandfather was surrounded by dark, heavy coats, and there was work to be done.
Re: a comment on The Bleeding Rose by BleedingRose	30-May-03/5:34 PM
My pleasure! I understand your fear about not wanting to become top heavy. Once I went on an all-fat diet for four years. By the end I weighed over 30 stones, and I was literally extremely obese. I had consumed so much butter that my sweat glands no longer produced sweat, but rather an oily secretion whose repulsive stench was rivalled only by its lubricating property. (One of my more tolerable butlers suggested bottling it and selling it as an Curative Ointment. The cheek! I sent him to Peru in a complimentary hamper). You may no doubt imagine what happened. During the diet I had remained indoors and, naturally, nude, but the ending of my diet coincided with an Exhibition of Mr. Chetwoad's Horrifying Machine in the Crystal Palace, which I was rather eager to attend. Slipping into a tuxedo proved challenging, but the cloth slid so beautifully and easily against my buttered skin that once I had it on, I was in a constant state of sensory arousal. Indeed, I rather feared that I would suddenly begin to writhe on the floor in pleasure during the Exhibition, so I took the precaution of branding my eye with a red-hot spatula and hoping this would balance out the other stimulus; the result was... O Jesu what have I done?