the image of a tire like a tiger's mouth doesn't work over here. Also the word 'guilty' is overdone. You shouldn't mention guilt - guilt works better that way, I think.

I don't care about your memories, I don't care about your taste, I don't care about your poem and I don't care about the explanation you gave - you're explaining your feelings. I don't care about your feelings. Being vague isn't poetic, it's boring, most of the time.

Final Version - that made me laugh. But then again, it's not a poem. It's a sermon. Put on a purple robe and tell them hypocrites!

Hump more.

Okay, carma, that’s nice. But it’s a bit long. Basically, it comes down to this:

if I wear myself out
the way I wear my cars out
I’ll get toe-tagged and towed
to the scrapyard
by a truck

I think it could even get shorter:

if like my cars
I drive myself
in the ground
I’ll end up
toe-tagged
in the scrapyard

Al Bashir is now under the chinese umbrella. As long as blood is cheaper than oil, arms trade a very profitable business and the security council a cruel joke, it will be hard to find a cure for the blind eye.

Dark night to greet. Reminded me of Pulp Fiction: I'm going medieval on you.

"Cream carpets were not the best buy, were they?
So- where was I?"

It made me feel pretty sick, this poem. So I guess it's a good poem.

Long. I was waiting for a line to make it worth the read but it did not come.
I mean, look at it this way: “Scented flowers beaten into retreat by the fiery breath they have bathed in for many days now adding to the heady scent of freshness that sweeps down every street and into open windows filling every sinew and bringing cheer where once was tired damp faces now breathing easy for a while.”

That’s tapewormin'. Masked by entertappin’.

Change the 'you' into 'I' and you'll end up with a derivate of Seamus Heaney's Personal Helicon.

'Now, to pry into roots, to finger slime,
To stare, big-eyed Narcissus, into some spring
Is beneath all adult dignity. I rhyme
To see myself, to set the darkness echoing.'

The de-baathification, forcing their armed forces to go underground, was an incredibly stupid move - you really think them with the math can heal that kind of stupidity? Use a guy like Rumsfeld as guinea pig, see what happens.

Good title. And a good read.
You could loose one 'school' in the last stanza, I think.

To be printed as a prayer for redemption in a rest-home - imagine spending the last years of your life being constipated: it's one of the hidden tragedies of humanity.
Anyway, here's a link:
http://goodlooguide.freeservers.com/

Very good. Cataractic window-cleaners are the most dedicated.

give me some a'

/ I came into this poem
/ coated with snotty ignorance
/ bored by the tube
/ or by myself
/ so no wonder

/ I read: seldom is etcetera
/ and every other open door. What draft!
/ I sniff. I sneeze. lets take a hike
/ or stay around
/ a little longer

/ between the lines I read
/ not one surprise, no hidden treat
/ it’s all as dull as it’s stretched out
/ so what the fuck are you about
/ ponder ponder ponder

/ somewhere in this overgrowth
/ of hand out truths and such
/ I feel the need to pee
/ this poem’s taking ages
/ ‘xcuse me. I’ll just go around the corner.

/ different degrees, yeah sure, that’s fresh
/ poetry. is this a test?
/ it’s got to be, really, I mean,
/ do not bite the feeding hand?
/ how did you come up with that?

/ and at the end I’m left with what?
/ no tricks no jokes no traps
/ I’ve been in platitude Sunday class
/ so I think I’d be more blessed
/ with scraps picked from my ass

I think you're a genius.

Sounds like flarf from any officecomputer. You can do better: so do better.

I tripped over the second 'but still' in the fourth stanza. Didn't mind. I liked the read.

This is very good. Reminded me of the time I was in Chios, made a trip to sit on Homer’s stone. Great view there (closed my eyes, tried to hear some sirens singing - only nagging kids, a mother yelling. The sea).

Saw a film about John Callahan, the cartoonist. He writes beautiful songs too - he's also a very good cure for the inflatable kind of self-pity you're exposing here.