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Apr 01, 2008
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The poem review of Damocles
I cannot praise a fire for being hot,
For growing large on fuel I cannot see.
I know you had a tale: you told it not.
You didn't share experience with me.
Your wound is fresh; your words betray your rage,
As incoherent noise in language blunt.
You spilled these lackwit fragments on the page
And let them jostle roughly to the front.
What good in that, to thank a would-be friend,
Whose heart was glad enough to start the read,
With incandescent crap from end to end?
Some days a critic's life is rough indeed.
No poem comes from throat of howling beast;
The injured ape within must borrow words,
Must commandeer a human brain at least
To write a poem not a string of turds.
Comments
Candlewitch
18 years 1 month ago
Hello,
weirdelf
18 years 1 month ago
As long as this wasn’t a
Skumpfsklub
18 years 1 month ago
Ah! Good! I was wondering
weirdelf
18 years 1 month ago
what a great idea!
pinksheep
18 years 1 month ago
I have
pinksheep
18 years 1 month ago
Changed my mind
Kieran Nelson
18 years 1 month ago
It’s nice I liked the
Skumpfsklub
16 years 10 months ago
Hey, it's a faux comment.
orgami
16 years 10 months ago
hhmmmm
Skumpfsklub
16 years 3 months ago
Let's blow the dust off this one, and look at it for a while.
orgami
16 years 2 months ago
Hmmmm