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"potes" poems
desperatus, credere potes mortuus, vivere potes devoted to no God, except those that resemble me i place each of my egos on the altar, and try to forgive myself there rests a serpent corpse: he began to writhe under my woes, now his callous flesh chips away akin to an ancient statue what's it like to no longer feel? all existence is to exist, to exist is to procreate vital enough to let sin seep into the soul it is under that philosophy that mitosis cocoons my being regenrate, rebirth, and rejoice! I AM: everyone you've come to love, i am what you seek in the rest i am each and every phantom that has glided through you and left traces of immortality, fused to the nerve and bone marrow desperatus, credere potes dortuus, vivere potes
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Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 4:13 AM UTC
visioness
madonna
desperatus, credere potes mortuus, vivere potes devoted to no God, except those that resemble me i place each of my egos on the altar, and try to forgive myself there rests a serpent corpse: he began to writhe under my woes, now his callous flesh chips away akin to an ancient statue what's it like to no longer feel? all existence is to exist, to exist is to procreate vital enough to let sin seep into the soul it is under that philosophy that mitosis cocoons my being regenrate, rebirth, and rejoice! I AM: everyone you've come to love, i am what you seek in the rest i am each and every phantom that has glided through you and left traces of immortality, fused to the nerve and bone marrow desperatus, credere potes dortuus, vivere potes
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Wot’s this ****** Poetry stuff? It’s all Gobbledygook to me! As far as I’m concerned you can just stick Your iamb up your fat pentameter. Wink. And I don’t care whether some of it Is like common speech. Or clever for being slightly incorrect. Wink. So why do lilies have to mean death When they are nothing but fracking flowers? What’s with all these virile horses And apples that are supposed to be bosoms? They are bladdy animals and fruit For heaven’s sake! Nothing more, nothing less. All this Moon in June stuff. All these bladdy feelings about your dog dying And unrequited love. All sentimental words And Repetition. I’d rather read a tome like a car manual: At least it tells you something You can use in real life. Yes, it’s all Vogon Poetry to me. All pretanticulary epticism from egogargantoid Arsenburgers who see themtegglers as the interferonical Ellicopters of the bladdy cosmeticus. And then there’s TS bladdy Elliot With his cruel Aprils and his Hoc ideo non potes legere quia lingua peregrina est. Vita illius. And while I’m at it. Who needs history when we live in the present? Art is no use whatsoever. Give me a hammer and a spanner Any day. Leave those luvvies to their childlike play And ballet dancers to their pillockettes. Opera? Pah. Humpa dumpa. Leave them Odious Odes to Cleverclogs Keats. Poetry? No bladdy thanks. (Written for some Friends. Winks. At too great a length For most). Paul Butters © PB 13\7\2023.
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Jul 13, 2023
Jul 13, 2023 at 6:50 AM UTC
paul-butters
Gobbledygook
Wot’s this ****** Poetry stuff? It’s all Gobbledygook to me! As far as I’m concerned you can just stick Your iamb up your fat pentameter. Wink. And I don’t care whether some of it Is like common speech. Or clever for being slightly incorrect. Wink. So why do lilies have to mean death When they are nothing but fracking flowers? What’s with all these virile horses And apples that are supposed to be bosoms? They are bladdy animals and fruit For heaven’s sake! Nothing more, nothing less. All this Moon in June stuff. All these bladdy feelings about your dog dying And unrequited love. All sentimental words And Repetition. I’d rather read a tome like a car manual: At least it tells you something You can use in real life. Yes, it’s all Vogon Poetry to me. All pretanticulary epticism from egogargantoid Arsenburgers who see themtegglers as the interferonical Ellicopters of the bladdy cosmeticus. And then there’s TS bladdy Elliot With his cruel Aprils and his Hoc ideo non potes legere quia lingua peregrina est. Vita illius. And while I’m at it. Who needs history when we live in the present? Art is no use whatsoever. Give me a hammer and a spanner Any day. Leave those luvvies to their childlike play And ballet dancers to their pillockettes. Opera? Pah. Humpa dumpa. Leave them Odious Odes to Cleverclogs Keats. Poetry? No bladdy thanks. (Written for some Friends. Winks. At too great a length For most). Paul Butters © PB 13\7\2023.
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