I prefer a little more direction and singlness of purpose in the poems I read. I also write double-tongued sometimes, but from a poem like this, I go away with a few good tidbits and a lot of wonderment.

Holy jesus, I more than hope it was more of a social suicide. Another day another poet watching another person kill themselves. As for political correctness, being nice to negros is the second biggest cause of suicide among white men in England. So yes you are correct.

The "you" of this poem could be any person taken aside or singled out, but the "she" of this poem is the voice of political correctness or societal peer pressure... it's basically a mess of anger that got directed at at nobody and nothing in particular. I personally'd like to think that the suididal portions are meant more like a social suicide than an actual one. Thanks for an honest reaction! •°•Gregory James•°•

Thank you, Felicia. That was a very nice poem your father wrote.

I realize that math is unpoetic to most, and this particular math might lose all but devoted number addicts.

Thanks, and welcome to Poemranker. I’ve read several of yours and hope to get back soon.

"This is a site for reading and critiquing POEMS, not for hurling around unfounded personal attacks and groundless suggestions." - zodiac. How can I even talk with someone so self-contradictory and confused.

I love this part about how -=Dark_Angel=-,P.I. is "drumming up reaction from the common folk", like some sort of charismatic Adolf Jones wannabe. But are you sure you're not just saying that because he's kicking your tail and you want to cry? For one thing, who the fuck is getting 'drummed up'????? Look, I feel bad for you. I really do. And I want this to end, honestly. Why can't you just START MAKING SENSE, for Chrissakes? This is a site for reading and critiquing POEMS, not for hurling around unfounded personal attacks and groundless suggestions that someone is (or isn't) a superhero or Hitler. Jeez!

This borders on dangerously wacky. I recommend the guideline, "If Terry Pratchett could have written it, it's guss." Still, a good effort, especially the second verse of the lay. 7/10.

It doesn't matter. And I haven't read it. Thought is necessarily productive, since it produces thoughts. But it is almost never worthwhile. You obviously think productive and worthwhile are the same thing. This, never mind that the ideas "to produce" and "to have worth" which are the bases of "productive" and "worthwhile", respectively, must be distinguishable even to you.

If you weren't such a newcomer to the whole anti-religion reaction, you'd probably get why Batman is such a cooler superhero than Superman and even Spiderman. As it is you almost certainly won't - and this, as I've mentioned, is terrifically sad in an thirty-year-old woman, especially one so otherwise-failed as well. Anyway, I must have been, like, six when I realized God didn't exist (for all practical purposes) and people still believed in Him and would probably go on believing in Him forever. When you get to the point where God might as well exist (for all practical purposes), give me a call. That's also the point where the hotties are, so you get laid a lot more.

From the Tale of Good King Bumblemeat: The Death of King Bumblemeat -- 'Harried and hunted by orc-soldiers to the very brink of Bum's Hole, as it was called by the men of the land, King Bumblemeat turned at bay and gathered his Bumlings for one last wild stand. "Fly, Bumlings!" he cried, "Fly to the flag of Bumlingnor!" And lo! The emblem of the Bumlings, three sausages on a field of brown, waved valourously over the fray, and the men of his house took heart. And King Bumblemeat, head swinging even as an enormous meaty club, entered into the thickest part of the orc-horde. Fell were the blows he dealt them! Fey was the gaze of his squinty eyes, and orcs innumerable fell before it. "Surely," spoke Prince Bumrod, his son, "Yea, verily the King's doings today shall be known in song for as long as men wear meat!" But the Prince's foretelling (for fortelling it was; the Prince was wearing the Sausagy Helm of Insufficient Prognostication) was premature. The orcs girt the King in, hacking and hewing at his proud meaty hat, till the luncheon meats lay piled and sliced among the orc-corpses. For the hat was of Men's making, and only a shadow of the great elven meat-helms of ages long carelessly mislaid. And at last, the power of his hamhocky helmet spent, the King lay on the stain'd turf and began to sing a death-lay, while for some reason they couldn't adequately explain, the orcs waited for him to finish. Maybe it was his surprisingly worthy voice, coming from a head so large and clubby. Or maybe it was that the words of the song, in the Bumling tongue and unintelligible to them, yet stirred some far-off recollection of bygone meats. We just don't know. Anyway, this was the lay of King Bumblemeat: 'Whither the meatly hats of yesterlunch? Whither the sausage helmets, the hammy porkpies, the berets Shimm'ring in sunlight, so meatly, All smelling sweetly Of honey and jelly-glaze? Whither King Bumfirst's hamhock, that bunched So gloriously on his ears as he rode that day Swinging his wet truncheon: To luncheon! To luncheon! With a sound so embarassingly gay? Alas! No more the meat! Alas! No more those hats! The ham-fedoras flapping their silly brims among the leaves Of Bumwood! Lost completely Are those bright helms, so meatly, Collapsed with somewhat sickly splats Onto the tops of our Wellingtons (Beeves)!' And so speaking, he died."