There is a solution that has been known to work, if one has a spine.. Leave. And go get the guy you paid the mail catalogue for, don't try to get the refund-- trust me. It's not fucking worth it. Lucky Seven, and it's Vegas honey.

The other-side is said to be a reflection of the life that one has lived. In that case, this dark fellow? Is utterly fucked. But I'm not dead, so what the hell do I know? Nothing. Thats why I'm so god-damn good. Yeah, and red wine coats my lips that hang so vain so vain as I slice up a fatal vein, between snorts of cocaine, the skies dark... maybe it'll rain. But what do I know? Nothing. --Here, have a seven, I'm in a good mood, fuck it all--

Nag, nag, nag, nag. Wanna party with Clint Eastwood and some Hells Angels out in the Arizona desert, right by route 69 and the devils path? We're gonna barbecue with an indian guide and a pound of peyote to boost after the shrooms wear off, and maybe we'll be indulgent in our stupor and spray up some graffito over these brown, dusty, dull rocks-- grand canyons need some fuckin color duntcha think? I do. What do you say? You down? Eh? I could hook you up with a Harley Punk too since your all down on love, love,-- I'll do the drugs, you handle the emotion, K?.

This poem is the kind of thing that causes me to tremble in angst and the fear that a poet hides in the shadows, praying that the sun never never rises from its mountain-crook. It's amazingly bloated, and I know a lot about using mind-blowing padding-- that's how I've managed to effectively irritate rankerfolk, by piling on meaningless candy-coated, poisoned bullshit and slapping a title on it-- the kind of shit that cause most sane folks to take up a hobby, like genocide, for instance. "as real as rain or fake as rainbows," Ok, when someone says something is as real as the rain, their usually teenagers that are going for the slightly uplifting average of a C+ in english class. As for rainbows? I have a bias, a tick you could say: Whenever someone mentions rainbows in a poem, I have to try very very hard to stifle the puke rising up my throat so that it doesn't become air-born with extreme velocity. Never mind the murderous rage that accompanies the over-all sensation. Fuck skittles, you get what I'm sayin? Oh, and the german, french, spanish, martian garble, etc, is well, fucking annoying and seems like an attempt to drown your "poem" in eloquent riddles that mean nothing. That, or it's a clever ploy dreamed up by a twisted freak of a jester to instill frustration and confusion among rankerfolk.-- never mind the multi-lingual blither, we still need to figure out what the fuck your rambling on about in english. Almost nothing in your poem (written during a fit of lunacy, or an encounter with jack daniels) relates to each other-- most of it is just dull imagery mixed with elaborate vocabulary that makes my adventures with a thesaurus look like a cruise across the Pacific Ocean, with volcano hiking in Hawaii as the vacation special. We de have a vague notion though, a glimmer of the frail innuendo-- (yeah, I'm good with the fecal gilding aren't I??) supposedly your yappin about what poetry (to you and whatever party you belong to) is, what it means, it's purpose, and ??? you didn't seem to have time to really get into a subtopic.. wait, did you even keep to the topic? oh, yes, barely, your hate of poor Ginsberg seemed to snap you out of the shit-trace to make a pathetic closing that barely connected with what you began with. Maybe, if you had a sense of humor, you would of drawn an ascii picture of a gun after the last lines, or maybe a knife, or-- even better-- a needle, for example: ________________________________________________________________________ But you asked me. So what’s my answer? This: |==[][][][][][]----- ***HEROIN & SPEED MIXED WITH PROZAC*** (and freud would cry, jung would sigh, pharmaceutical companies would celebrate as we all bask in the age of chemical therapy.) -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- That's my take on it... I know you won't like my reaction, my comment, my arrogance, my brash bitter humor or the sarcastic irony that pours out from me, BUT!!! never-the-less i am compelled to dish it out, much like a lawyer delivering ones divorce papers with anthrax soon mistaken for cocaine. Its ok to be insane, its ok, its ok, I FEEL YOUR PAIN. Good day. No Vote.

LOL this limerick kicks fucking ass

Grout.

A blazing sling of poo.

Did you mean "odd" instead of "queer"in the first line? Are the piss and shit references about the Asian SARS epidemic? I think the Bangcock in the title is self explanitory. Am I right? "Asswagon's blender," Daiquiris? Help! I'm trying to understand the "walk on the wild side." Lot's of strong images -8-

Bleef Bow'luon

lol

You make some good points, but you fail to realise that society would crumble if men were denied absolute control over their wives. Women are jolly good at kittens and embroidery, and their role as mothers to offspring cannot be overlooked, but when it comes to Important Matters Of The Towne, of which all women remain dangerously ignorant, I'm afraid they're best kept under lock and key. That said, I thought this was an excellent poeme, and at the very least it has given me cause to question my beliefs concerning the weaker sex, even if it hasn't changed them completely. Thanks, -10-

I declare MR Blobby to be the most hilarious thing to hit poemeranker since horus8's disastrous epic "AIDS in a crayon".