I mean, "the cobblestones of Paris on a lonely night"?? What a leaping turd from the oniony roof of Sacre Couer. "The moon feels without moonbeam," too.

I get whimsical sometimes. Not with you, though.

the 48-hour rule.

Alternate Endings:
(1) and your kid-sister's bum,
(2) and each other's cum,
(3) and Sharyn McCrumb.

May I say, bow'ls?

Don't misrepresent us, hypatia. We're all as gentle as lambs, daveslady, as you would see if you'd care to accompany us up to our apartments where we've got fresh iced tea and really state-of-the-art hi-fi systems waiting.

Or please consider buying the DVD of the made-for-tv version of "Helter Skelter" here (http://search.able2know.com/Movies/Reviews/H/Helter_Skelter_L5599/) as it co-stars our own Jeremi B Handrinos.

Regarding the 'point', consider this: If I were such a drunken fuck-up as the narrator of this story, I probably wouldn't read poetry or have the self-awareness to recognize the narrator's situation as being like to my own (or to care if I did.) Ditto for you as writer. So this poem could mean nothing to an actual drunk living a boring self-destructive life; he would most likely not change his behavior in the slightest, even if he did happen to read it. Nor could it mean anything to me as a non-self-destructive non-boring reader, except to make me feel a little good and self-righteous about not being a boring drunk, which I don't really care for in a poem - and which is a false self-righteousness, anyway, since it's not a real drunk I'm feeling better than but a creation of your non-drunk imagination. A simple way to fix this is to position your actual self in the poem watching the drunk. Then you don't have to deal with the problem of the drunk's self-awareness and we can learn all kinds of interesting things about you which aren't fictional - that you're the kind of person who would write about a boring drunk, to say the least. And it would necessarily be true and believable.

In Poem School where I currently attend we are frequently required to perform hideous 'Poetry Drills' involving rapid de-ambiguification of famous and infamous poems while jumping quickly in place on our desks. The professors and other staff stand around us, mocking our efforts and not-infrequently pulling our uniform sweatpants down to our ankles (Poetry Drills often taking place on Gym Day for exactly that reason.)

That said, the one interpretation I missed is that TPBOD is your name, which makes me sorry for having made so much fun of your poem. I wouldn't have been so harsh if I'd known it was you.

re "Too many redundant lines": not to mention that most of them refer to the world fading/blowing away as if it were some kind of common occurence and not a mostly meaningless space-filler invented by bad post-grunge Christian rock bands to give the lighting technicians an excuse to cut all the stage-lights at once, inevitably making the crowd scream like crazy.

No.

Or vesicle, cervix, & pudendum?

Of course he is.

IT'S ABOUT A POO DANGLING FROM A GIRL'S ASSHOLE!!!