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Tim Jordan Jul 2019
Mistah Gates. He dead"

Time is an ouroboros and
the Earth a flat circle

Measure out your life
in insta pics

Let us go then, you and I,
through empty diamonds
and deserted play grounds.
Let us visit, if you will,
the battlefields ,
streets full of bodies
that decay in minutes.

In waiting rooms people come and go
and speak of tanks and Bushido
Eyes I dare not meet
Can see me with their headpiece
made of straw

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Forgotten, as we stare at our new ones.
This poem is intentionally jagged and imperfect, much like me.
Lucius Furius Jul 2018
J. Alfred, I'm sick of your whining --
get off your **** and do something!
Yes, I know life is meaningless.
I know you've got a lot of time on your hands.
Of course, tea parties can be boring.
But let me just ask here: "Is someone making you do this?
Is someone making you hang out with these cold, scornful
Surely a guy like you could find someone to relate to. It's
    not that hard.

No, you're not Prince Hamlet --
and you're not an attendant lord either.
You're J. Alfred Prufrock!
Eat a peach, for-God's-sake!
Talk to the mermaids!
Just do it!

<Note: It's useful to think of Whoopi Goldberg as the speaker.>
Hear Lucius/Jerry read the poem: .
This poem is part of the Scraps of Faith collection of poems ( )
D Lowell Wilder Apr 2016
Hello Alfred where ya bin?
Cruising aisles of memories tinned, a good deal
thinner when you last checked in.
Back slapped worn, born of songs between
your ears, evenings out are scrims on which
you show your friends what is what and what they fear.
Oh you pickled miscreant.
I dare you.  Eat me.  All up.
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock entices me.  Shout out to Eliot and inspiration.
On a foggy dark London day
Strode Mr Prufrock, Alfred J.
He made many an allusion
About ****** confusion
Now he’s dead like Phlebas…ok?
Similar to Wendy Cope's Waste Land limericks.
Kalon R Mar 2015
I am Emma Bovary
I am Prufrock
I am the Underground Man
I am Gretta

I'm trapped in my mind, wondering why I am in this situation...
I'm unsure of myself and my feelings...
I needed to dominate but now I realize what I got isn't what I want...
I'm judged by my past and still wanting to re-live my glory days...

I too am Baumer...
I'm fighting but it's time to rest
Oh Dorian! why am I so perfect?

Tomorrow, I'll be at breakfast and won't see the girl who made me feel this way, I'll give up hope
and continue lying saying "I'll elope"

Besides, she'll think I'm ugly and I'll feel alone and ashamed

I too...

Am Decaying on The Inside
"She was eaten up with desires, with rage, with hate. The rigid folds of her dress covered a tormented heart of which her chaste lips never spoke"
J Super Star Feb 2015
Let's stay in this prison of blankets
and un-remember our meaning
to this existence.

I have walked all the parks
and I have swam in all the seas.
I have slow-danced in all the bars.
I have seen all the cosmic dreams.

My bones are tired of adventure.
My soul is tired of the new.

Let's ignore the changing colors and trends.
Let's arrest ourselves in this bed.

Somewhere where the jazz is fine
and smooth kids wanna spend time,
I had lost my ignorance and my pride.
Patience bit me. I grew a mind.

The world is a vampire and we only knew
after a thousand cups of coffee
and a thousand classrooms.

Let's forget. Let's die.
Got this poem out of me in order for me to concentrate better on homework. I originally wrote it on paper but as I typed it out I can see how not a poet I am.
Said The Raven
To The Raven
Which Raven are you?

I said The Raven
Am The Raven
Of Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

And I said The Raven
Am The Raven
Of Edgar Allan Poe.

Apparently there's a rave on -
Shall we go?

Yes - let us go then you and I
As the evening is spread out
Against the sky.

But not like a patient
Etherised upon a table.

Let us like Thunderbirds
Not gentle go into this dark night.

So dressed in sable
White gloves
And whistles
They went on their way -
Not looking forward
To conversations about
Michelangelo at all.

For as we all know
Old age should rave and burn
At close of day.
And not just fizzle out.

More big shout...........................................

And rave until you fall.
Both Edgar Allan Poe and Samuel Taylor Coleridge did both write poems called The Raven. The latter's is one of the most dispiriting and disconcerting pieces of vindictive revenge in the English language.T S Eliot and Dylan Thomas did write poems called The Love Song of J Alfred Purfrock and Do Not Gentle Go Into That Good Night respectively and lines from both poems appear here in various guises. If you know niether both would make most anthologies of 20th century poetry.

And honestly white gloves and whistles were common on the rave scene in the early days.

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