Beret

Girl Repellent, or, A Poem About Computers

My friends PC has a virus
With which he generously supplied us
Yet I remain calm
and let out a yawn
I use the OS made by Linus

Can you read the tricky captcha?

I could.

The correct answer was muzesperm. Seriously.

Sperm is my muze,
as it rains on her face and clouds her views
Bringing thoughts of winter to my troubled mind

</badpoetry>

“
I’ve waited longing for today:
Spindle, bobbin, and spool, away!
In joy and bliss I’m off to play
Upon this high holiday.

Spindle, bobbin, and spool, away,
For joy that it’s a holiday!

The dirt upon the floor’s unswept,
The fireplace isn’t cleaned and kept,
I haven’t cut the rushes yet
Upon this high holiday.
Spindle, bobbin, etc.

The cooking herbs I must fetch in,
And fix my kerchief under my chin.
Darling Jack, lend me a pin
To fix me well this holiday!
Spindle, bobbin, etc.

Now midday has almost come,
And all my chores are still not done
I’ll clean my shoes till they become
Bright for a high holiday.
Spindle, bobbin, etc.

In pails the milk has got to go;
I ought to spread this bowl of dough -
It clogs my nails and fingers so
As I knead this holiday!
Spindle, bobbin, etc.

Jack will take me on my way,
And with me he will want to play:
I needn’t fear my lady’s nay
On such a high holiday!
Spindle, bobbin, etc.

And when we stop beside the track
At the inn this Sunday, Jack
Will wet my whistle and pay my whack
As on every holiday.
Spindle, bobbin, etc.

Then he’ll take me by the hand
And lay me down upon the land
And make my buttocks feel like sand
Upon this high holiday.
Spindle, bobbin, etc.

In he’ll push and out he’ll go,
With me beneath him lying low:
‘By God’s death, you do me woe
Upon this high holiday.’
Spindle, bobbin, etc.

Soon my belly began to swell
As round and great as any bell;
And to my dame I dared not tell
What happened to me that holiday.

Spindle, bobbin, and spool, away,
For joy that it’s a holiday!
”

Fuck yeah dirty medieval poetry.
The Servant Girl’s Holiday from pg 104-105 of Medieval English Verse

This is mantra poetry:

The sun is rising
It is blazing with vigorous life

The sun is rising
It is shining across the hills

The sun is rising,
like a glowing breast

It’s fine in moderation but it is seriously overused.

Please stop this instanity.

bad poetry

A moment of joy, then light fills the sauna

The cops have come to take my marijuana

Grab the book closest to you. Go to page 56. Find the 5th sentence. Write that sentence in the text box.

The war and after the war
With jobs and money came,
My father lives in a big suburban home.

Makings by Gary Snyder

Book: Left Out in the Rain

Played 10 times [Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]

16. Flames, by Billy Collins on The Best Cigarette.

This creates a nice mental image and provides a bit of silence before the last song.

My mom and I went to see him read at St. John’s College in Santa Fe this year. He didn’t read this poem AFAIK; but we had arrived late. We had a good time regardless. There was a girl and one of her friends stalled out on the narrow road to St. John’s. She was trying to learn to drive a stick and was surprised that the road was busy in the late afternoon. All around St. John’s are houses with for sale signs on them. Huge multi-million dollar houses and for sale signs by Sotheby’s and other big names.

On our way back, Mom tried to find the place she had lived at when she was in massage school. It was gone, we saw so many new houses replacing the old ones; new houses with chicken wire and plywood. She was devastated at all the new construction, she got a bit teary and said she never wanted to drive on that road again when she realized that she couldn’t find the house she stayed at.

We witnessed someone trying to drive a stretch limo down Canyon Road, a one way street, I was happy to see its occupants being heckled by locals.

The complete Billy Collins album also available here (Creative Commons BY-NC-ND)