| Poem: Submit | Random | Best | Worst | Recent | Comments |
|
London Calling (Free verse) by Bluemonkey Waste and want walk hand in hand
through the dirty streets of London.
This daily bread is growning stale;
moldy and left to decompose.
Cradles turned to coffins
in a twisted game of evolution.
The sickening smell of cinnamon
rising from the baker's grave.
The first to aid, the last to fall;
saddened in summer's peak.
These bearded attempts to fan the flame
of a sour fire indeed.
Up the ladder:
Fourteen Years
Down the ladder:
Celestial Veil
Votes: (green: user, blue: anonymous)
Arithmetic Mean: 5.75
Posted: July 7, 2005 9:04 AM PDT; Last modified: July 7, 2005 9:04 AM PDTWeighted score: 5.089402 Overall Rank: 6284 Comments:
[7]
Bankrupt_Word_Clerk @ 71.130.168.209
|
7-Jul-05/2:31 PM
|
Reply
ok
Good except for "twisted game of evolution."
Even the finest Persian carpets must have at least one blemmish, lest they affect a perfection that touches the buttocks of God. And so it is with poetry, the obvious exception being 'The Spaz' by ?-Dave_Mysterious-?
"bearded attempts" is great.
243 view(s)
|
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
