Poetry Forum

I'll "Fuck off" now

yes but then you would have the right to say fuck off back on account of my assuming I knew how you felt

still thank you for you for reading

Remembrance the doctor says, 'your baby is not alive' yeah I know but it's the missus I'm worried about now the Simpsons play on the TV in the side room but you don't laugh instead the missus lets out a wail that no actress can reproduce no cliche ridden bullshit will let you hear no poetic crap ab...

The poem isn't Anti-American.

The poem isn't anti-anything.

I take on board the Cape Town point though.

The part you highlight is a bit of schtick to set up the later joke about Elizabeth Barrett Browning.... but hey, we all read things in different ways.

Thank you.

Actually I joined the forum because I was seeking to rekindle my interest in writing poetry - the fact that that I have a kindle book is neither here nor there.

But thank you for the warm welcome, it is much appreciated.

But other than that you liked it...

Which language in particular?

I've got a kindle book for sale - https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00INGDNS4 - it's called The Blue Book - It's @ 98pages The poems were written between 2000 and 2008 and are an eclectic mix on such topics as war, love, sex and death, football management, cross dressing, nature, bleaching a mouse, the D...

With thanks to Mr Voltaire.

http://ia600202.us.archive.org/15/items ... uttock.mp3

"or is it sixty?"

Is superfluous, is too jarring to the rhythm, and spoils the comedy.

I really like the rhymes in the first verse, especially best, tulips and florist. It pulls the focus into a very neat triangle.

I'd be tempted to leave the poem as a three line statement - and maybe give it a long and convoluted time.

Let us prey.... Our Father, franchised from America that makes the world the same. Thy mores come, thy burgers will be done in Omsk as they are in Capetown. Give us our dose of the daily dead and televise their carcasses as we bomb the shit out of those that trespass against us. And lead us not into...

Lapsed poet, in the wild and windy north, returning to the fold.