Todski's Choice

[twelveoone]

tuna is tre cliche, christ
it even comes from a can
to write poetry stuff
you gotta think about it
you gotta have a plan
think about what you do
do we want to see another
vagina sushi haiku?

Bento Box

vagina sushi
haiku oh! ginger flower
oh no wasabi

hey, not bad, Emp
would like it

think soup du jour
Snapper!
you got a rhyme going
lapper!
but save poetry from the can

no more pussy
cat food.

 

[twelveoone]

and fuck bdsm

spanky

The night porter never sits



Ah, Mistress Dominique, cruiser of dark bars
with your high heeled boots, nazi cap
and tits adorned with stars.

Tell me, whose leathered arse
bears the deeper scars
har, har! Why... yars!

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/SS_Girls#mediaviewer/File:SSgirlsposter.jpg

really cries for a remake
by Mel Brooks
in Bollywood
I luv musicals, whips and stuff

 

[twelveoone]

think outside the box pardon the unintended pun

click on the link money shot

this is film

yes, but think about it, what the fuck, if you are writing poetry, write some, the extra effort in the core, there is your money shot
or cum shot in porn

 

[twelveoone]

just thought I'd add some class

Bob Southey! You're a poet, poet laureate,
And representative of all the race.
Although 'tis true that you turned out a Tory at
Last, yours has lately been a common case.
And now my epic renegade, what are ye at
With all the lakers, in and out of place?
A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye
Like four and twenty blackbirds in a pye,

Which pye being opened they began to sing'
(This old song and new simile holds good),
'A dainty dish to set before the King'
Or Regent, who admires such kind of food.
And Coleridge too has lately taken wing,
But like a hawk encumbered with his hood,
Explaining metaphysics to the nation.
I wish he would explain his explanation.

You, Bob, are rather insolent, you know,
At being disappointed in your wish
To supersede all warblers here below,
And be the only blackbird in the dish.
And then you overstrain yourself, or so,
And tumble downward like the flying fish
Gasping on deck, because you soar too high,
Bob, And fall for lack of moisture quite a dry Bob.

And Wordsworth in a rather long Excursion
(I think the quarto holds five hundred pages)
Has given a sample from the vasty version
Of his new system to perplex the sages.
'Tis poetry, at least by his assertion,
And may appear so when the Dog Star rages,
And he who understands it would be able
To add a story to the tower of Babel.

You gentlemen, by dint of long seclusion
From better company, have kept your own
At Keswick, and through still continued fusion
Of one another's minds at last have grown
To deem, as a most logical conclusion,
That poesy has wreaths for you alone.
There is a narrowness in such a notion,
Which makes me wish you'd change your lakes for ocean.

I would not imitate the petty thought,
Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice,
For all the glory your conversion brought,
Since gold alone should not have been its price.
You have your salary; was't for that you wrought?
And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise.
You're shabby fellows—true—but poets still
And duly seated on the immortal hill.

Your bays may hide the baldness of your brows,
Perhaps some virtuous blushes; let them go.
To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs,
And for the fame you would engross below,
The field is universal and allows
Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow.
Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe will try
'Gainst you the question with posterity.

For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses,
Contend not with you on the winged' steed,
I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses,
The fame you envy and the skill you need.
And recollect a poet nothing loses
In giving to his brethren their full meed
Of merit, and complaint of present days
Is not the certain path to future praise.

He that reserves his laurels for posterity
(Who does not often claim the bright reversion)
Has generally no great crop to spare it, he
Being only injured by his own assertion.
And although here and there some glorious rarity
Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion,
The major part of such appellants go
To—God knows where—for no one else can know.

If fallen in evil days on evil tongues,
Milton appealed to the avenger, Time,
If Time, the avenger, execrates his wrongs
And makes the word Miltonic mean sublime,
He deigned not to belie his soul in songs,
Nor turn his very talent to a crime.
He did not loathe the sire to laud the son,
But closed the tyrant-hater he begun.

Think'st thou, could he, the blind old man, arise
Like Samuel from the grave to freeze once more
The blood of monarchs with his prophecies,
Or be alive again—again all hoar
With time and trials, and those helpless eyes
And heartless daughters—worn and pale and poor,
Would he adore a sultan? He obey
The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh?

Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant!
Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's gore,
And thus for wider carnage taught to pant,
Transferred to gorge upon a sister shore,
The vulgarest tool that tyranny could want,
With just enough of talent and no more,
To lengthen fetters by another fixed
And offer poison long already mixed.

An orator of such set trash of phrase,
Ineffably, legitimately vile,
That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise,
Nor foes—all nations—condescend to smile.
Not even a sprightly blunder's spark can blaze
From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless toil,
That turns and turns to give the world a notion
Of endless torments and perpetual motion.

A bungler even in its disgusting trade,
And botching, patching, leaving still behind
Something of which its masters are afraid,
States to be curbed and thoughts to be confined,
Conspiracy or congress to be made,
Cobbling at manacles for all mankind,
A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chains,
With God and man's abhorrence for its gains.

If we may judge of matter by the mind,
Emasculated to the marrow, it
Hath but two objects, how to serve and bind,
Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit,
Eutropius of its many masters, blind
To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit,
Fearless, because no feeling dwells in ice;
Its very courage stagnates to a vice.

Where shall I turn me not to view its bonds,
For I will never feel them. Italy,
Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds
Beneath the lie this state-thing breathed o'er thee.
Thy clanking chain and Erin's yet green wounds
Have voices, tongues to cry aloud for me.
Europe has slaves, allies, kings, armies still,
And Southey lives to sing them very ill.

Meantime, Sir Laureate, I proceed to dedicate
In honest simple verse this song to you.
And if in flattering strains I do not predicate,
'Tis that I still retain my buff and blue;
My politics as yet are all to educate.
Apostasy's so fashionable too,
To keep one creed's a task grown quite
Herculean— Is it not so, my Tory, ultra-Julian?

I didn't write this btw, I found it in a thread (s)

 

[twelveoone]

Originally Posted by todski28 View Post
http://www.literotica.com/p/star-kissed

Etc, points for originality but what the fuck did I just read, about to go squirt lemon juice in my eye so I can eat it with my tuna........
.................................................................................................................
Todski's Choice
tuna is tre cliche, christ
it even comes from a can
to write poetry stuff
you gotta think about it
you gotta have a plan
think about what you do
do we want to see another
vagina sushi haiku?

Bento Box

vagina sushi
haiku oh! ginger flower
oh no wasabi

hey, not bad, Emp
would like it

think soup du jour
Snapper!
you got a rhyme going
lapper!
but save poetry from the can

no more pussy
cat food.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

will try this again, this is one poem, think outside the box, an amazingly complex machine, a poem within a poem, a self aware poem, word play and a loop.
Where's my fucking E? all in words you can understand (you may have to look up vagina and wasabi)

Why do I get this vision of frontal lobes turning brown around here.

This one was complex...go look at New Poems recommendations...all just as devilish plus cleaned up i.e. "money shot" as in poetry in poems.

but then maybe im just wrong

anyway 39 steps wasn't bad
ash had one about two bumper stickers colliding
and there is always the doings of Dick Shore.

ah well

as i said my ass slept
as i listened to the dim yammer
of the nagging star
about as challenged
as me scratching
my dead buttocks
hammered in some bar

could use some desuffixing, 30 edits in a minute
dim yam
challenge
my ass slept
the world ends
tomorrow
and poetry lies
unsolved

 

[todski28]

Hey 1201 work is beatin me into the ground at the moment but will hopefully be back in a few days. If you see anything else I may need to know feel free to post it here

 

[twelveoone]

Hey 1201 work is beatin me into the ground at the moment but will hopefully be back in a few days. If you see anything else I may need to know feel free to post it here

Breaking Balls. My new cable show (or should be) poetry put through a nut cracker.
anyway that poem you liked was so bad it inspired me, just had to respond.

 

[HarryHill]

High noon in Jersey
short shadows

 

[Trixareforkids]

Somewhere between
asleep and awake
I saw you
playing with
shadows. Boxing or
dancing I'm not sure
which but playing
as always
just out of reach.