Poem rate thread

I wanna be a box

shifted on the production line

mass marketed

diana of profits

bespoken nonsense and the aesthetics of violence

crippled by linear time renaissance

resorts to planned spectaclescence

aboloshing the significance of geological and virtual spaces. constrict to zero point

mud to R I P

infinite growth into your veins

fuel from compacted dark matter and human shame

jej

you said there was puss then there wasnt puss which is it

MY NAME IS

Shakespeara
The line steala, the old schoolah
You wanna trap? I'll bring it to ya

4/10

I wonder
Are you a martyr?
Nearly sure
You,
On security-blanket, non-prescription “medication”
With marquee thoughts of aggression
Watching the hobo’s face shrivel inward as he shits in a bush
Need somewhere else to answer

Walking downtown
Friendly nods from a religious solicitor
Overwritten
A worthless 80's lunchbox in the antique shop
Somewhat overwritten
But the malt place
With lacquered wood
Paternal expression
And scalped clientele of mid-week strollers
Has,
Through its absence,
Revealed an answer
As crow-head kids
Chiming about the collapse of modern sympathy
Refuse to glance in its direction

It's not a poem if it doesn't rhyme, you stupid niggers. No one wants to read your shitty stacked prose.

>posts in poetry thread
>doesn't know what free verse is

Attached: a5MZ4DL_700b.jpg (326x294, 18K)

get a load of this guy.

Attached: lel.png (1440x900, 1.14M)

Have you ever tried lancing one before? All you get is blood.

No, I want a meatshake.

Don't talk to me about loneliness
If you have never cried
For the lack of one to make you cry
Or cut away your pride

Don't talk to me about pain
If you have only hurt yourself
And only felt for others
Live in books upon your shelf

Don't talk to me of anger
With no blood to stain your hands
Or the lust to harm another
If you only got the chance

Don't talk to me of anything
Or playing cards you're dealt
There is nothing human in you
I don't feel the things you've felt

Something strange is creeping across me.
La Celestina has only to warble the first few bars
Of “I Thought about You” or something mellow from
Amadigi di Gaula for everything--a mint-condition can
Of Rumford’s Baking Powder, a celluloid earring, Speedy
Gonzales, the latest from Helen Topping Miller’s fertile
Escritoire, a sheaf of suggestive pix on greige, deckle-edged
Stock--to come clattering through the rainbow trellis
Where Pistachio Avenue rams the 2300 block of Highland
Fling Terrace. He promised he’d get me out of this one,
That mean old cartoonist, but just look what he’s
Done to me now! I scarce dare approach me mug’s attenuated

Rare pepe!

>rhyming

You're all shit
wrote the
19 years
old
intellectual

not originally in english

great is the house of Fame
where words voiceless
tell every truth

there, in the end, we all lose ourselves
in everything said and
we find ourselves as a simple heap
of meanings

relief for everyone worried
for themselves