Welcher bist du? Reisender? Arbeiter? Denker? Schöpfer, oder alles? Selbstportrait?

Very nice. I liked the simpler sections "My id and I..." contrasted with the more explanatory stanzas, and how the id induced desires lacked punctuation. You could turn this in for a Psychology 101 assignment.

Deine muttie hat eine saftsack.

Sex is naughty. Do not mention it again.

How dare you soil my name with this filth!

I hope to Christ that my death doesn't inspire something as ham-handedly inept as this massive lump of flatulence. Poetry is not just about writing down some emotions and randomly interspersing them with pointless line breaks. You must remember to pause every now and again to stare wistfully out of an open window. -9-

Congratulations. From the appalling title to the laughable use of "purring" to rhyme with "stirring", this has to be one of the worst poemes I have ever read.

Ahhh the "proverbial porthole"... how beautiful.

Are you a cat?

Is this a real poem?

Congratulations! It's not often one encounters such a generous expendature of voracity in poetry nowadays. The introspective rythm is simply sublime. Keep up the good work!!!

brava! la terra che percorriamo non siamo solidi esso esitiamo come la memoria

I love the "crisply laid stool" part. They don't make toys like they used to!

I overworked my fish and his eskimo a while ago. It got so bad, I had to put them both down. Don't let it happen to you.

I want you to listen to me very carefully, sliver. What I say may save your spirit, if not your life. There is a reason for the voices you hear, and there is only one way I know of to be free of them. I want you to go to your bathroom and lock the door. Look at yourself in the mirror and say your name three times. Kneel, and say the Lord's Prayer. Then look back at the mirror and say "In the name of Christ, let me be free. In the name of Christ, I am free." You may feel a burning sensation in your elbows at this point. Lights may start flashing and taps may turn on and off. Ignore them and keep looking straight in the mirror. Say a prayer of your choosing, then depart. I'll pray for you. -10-

I think your rhymes hurt more than help here. Rhyming well is difficult, and works best when it seems effortless and unobtrusive. Mainly, though, this just seems kind of vague--more telling than showing, which is usually fatal in poetry. Rhymes won't really carry a poem if it lacks interesting language, good imagery, some kernal that's revealed rather than foisted on us, etc. Really good poets make rhymes seem natural and effortless. Look at this, for example, by the new Poet Laureate of the United States, Louise Gluck: Fish bones walked the waves off Hatteras. And there were other signs That Death wooed us, by water, wooed us By land: among the pines An uncurled cottonmouth that rolled on moss Reared in the polluted air. Birth, not death, is the hard loss. I know. I also left a skin there.

I don't really understand it but part of it I find myself liking. . .what is it all about?

(same comment as for your "30,000 Feet" poem)

You are exceedingly pretentious. Good day, Sir.

This poem is good. Very good. However, it may be more enjoyable if it were written on a lady's boobies.