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iron eagle user not visiting

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Posted: 10 Mar 05, 20:48 Edit this post Reply to this post Reply with Quote

And in the death
As the last few corpses lay rotting on the slimy thoroughfare
The shutters lifted in inches in Temperance Building
High on Poacher's Hill
And red mutant eyes gaze down on Hunger City
No more big wheels

Fleas the size of rats sucked on rats the size of cats
And ten thousand peoploids split into small tribes
Coveting the highest of the sterile skyscrapers
Like packs of dogs assaulting the glass fronts of Love-Me Avenue
Ripping and rewrapping mink and shiny silver fox, now legwarmers
Family badge of sapphire and cracked emerald
Any day now

The Year of the Diamond Dogs

this aint rock n roll

this is genocide................

i got a way with the boys on my block.. :-)

Banquo user not visiting
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Posted: 12 Mar 05, 05:18 Edit this post Reply to this post Reply with Quote

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

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.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

I prefer Wilfred Owen myself. Call me pretentious but there's something about Wilfred Owen that fascinates me. I remember doing these poems for English Lit along with Keats. Keats' poems were a bit shit. Who wants to read an ode to a grecian urn??!?? But the above with Anthem for Doomed Youth and the fact that he dies just before the end of WWI is slightly macabre.

Guess who's back?
Lady Cool Cat user not visiting

Bohemian: 421 posts
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Posted: 15 Mar 05, 13:36 Edit this post Reply to this post Reply with Quote

What the...? :)

Friends Will Be Friends; Life without friends is like Rock n' Roll without Queen.

dragonzflame user not visiting

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Posted: 15 Mar 05, 22:43 Edit this post Reply to this post Reply with Quote


When life hands you lemons, add vodka.