Jacuzzi Billy Presents: The Wackbag Poetry Thread

#4
Look into my eyes, you'll see my heart
Look into my butt, you'll hear my fart
 

SatansCheerledr

Ideologically Unsound
#5
Look into my heart, you'll see my blood. Look into my ass, you'll see my mud.
 

Atomic Fireball

Well-Known Member
Donator
#6
Ode to the pay toilet

Here I sit, brokenhearted
Payed my quarter and only farted
 

Creasy Bear

gorgeousness and gorgeousity made flesh
Donator
#7
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Fuck poetry
 

whiskeyguy

PR representative for Drunk Whiskeyguy.
Donator
#8
This better not fucking distract you from providing content to all the other threads no one visits!
 

whiskeyguy

PR representative for Drunk Whiskeyguy.
Donator
#9
Oh, and @maz is going to give himself a stroke trying to type "gay" faster than his brain can send homophobia to his fingers.
 

Pigdango

Silence, you mortal Fuck!
Donator
#12
Whatever happened to Pan
He vanished and came back a vegan
He used to share videos of the dead
Now the only thing dying are his threads
Bad music, bad board games, and bad lit
Does he have any interests that aren’t shit?
 

SKEPTIC

Those who believe in telekinetics, raise my hand.
#14
Whatever happened to Pan
He vanished and came back a vegan
He used to share videos of the dead
Now the only thing dying are his threads
Bad music, bad board games, and bad lit
Does he have any interests that aren’t shit?
It's all because of math
that he wants a blood bath
going to the school of Uncle Ted
so he can learn to make us dead
 

Mags

A.K.A. Chad
Donator
#15
A girl named Beth
Brought me some meth
And had me charged with rape

*names changed to protect the guilty
 
#16
There once was a man from Nantucket.
Whose dick was so long he could suck it.
He said with a grin,
as he wiped off his chin.
"If my ear was a cunt I would fuck it."
 

DiggerNick

Well-Known Member
Donator
#17
My favourite poem, courtesy of my favourite writer, Robert E. Howard. It's as brutal and bad-ass as any of his stories, and written a full decade before the onset of WW2, proving that REH was a prophetic racist par excellence:

“Little Brown Man Of Nippon”

Little brown man of Nippon
Who apes the ways of the west,
You have set the sword on your standard,
And the eagle on your crest.

Little brown man of Nippon,
You have dreamed a deadly dream;
You have waked the restless ravens
And the rousing vultures scream.

Oh, lines of an unborn empire,
Foam of a rising flood,
Your bones shall mark the borders,
The tide shall be your blood.

Little brown man of Nippon,
Though the star of the West be set,
And the last of the fair-haired strew the field
Where East and West be met –

Though you herd us down like cattle,
And hew us down like corn,
Our blood shall drown your vision
Of the empire yet unborn.

In utter desolation, and despair
At the end, on a blackened hill,
You shall sit and view your empire,
Broken and charred and still.

The beams of shattered houses,
Reared stark against the sky,
And fields wherein, for waving grain,
Long waves of dead men lie.

We will set the torch with our own hands
To wall and roof and spire;
We will cut the throats of our women,
And feed our babes to the fire;

We will fling our naked bosoms
Against your bloodied steel;
As you tread us under, dying,
Our teeth shall rend your heel.

But, little brown man of Nippon,
Should the dice fall otherwise,
And the gods of the fair-haired triumph
When the battle-dawns arise –

We will give your flesh to the sea-gulls
And your cities to the flame,
Till the world forgets your visions,
And the years forget your name.

Over your island empire
Shall our steel-clad squadrons fly
Till the land lies black and silent
Under a flame-ripped sky.

Till the hungry wolf goes slinking
Along your shattered streets,
And the kite in your ruined palace
Tears at the crimson meats.

And over the crimson gutters
Which infant bodies choke
The raven flaps and strangles
In the drifting shreds of smoke.

No plough shall break your valleys,
No song shall rouse your hill –
Still and silent the ploughmen,
The singers silent and still.

And your nation’s only emblem,
Oh, man of the crimson dream –
Save corpses in the broken streets
And the death-fires’ baleful gleam –

Shall hang at the prow of a cruiser,
That furrows the flying foam,
Bearing the spoils of conquest
To the fair-haired people’s home.

Shall hang at the prow of a cruiser,
Grinning and dripping red,
The price of a dream of empire –
Little brown man, your head.
 
#18
Just finished L.E. Sissman's poetry collection "Hello, Darkness." How he's not far more well known is a mystery to me. Here's some good background info on him from The Atlantic:
March 17, 1999
The poetry of Louis Edward Sissman speaks to us out of midcentury American life with all of the poise and formal elegance of W. H. Auden yet with the joie de vivre of Sissman's Harvard contemporary Frank O'Hara. Sissman was born in Detroit in 1928, sporting a "trick intellect" that soon made him a national spelling champion and one of the radio moppets on "The Quiz Kids." At the age of sixteen, already 6' 4" and 200 lbs., he entered Harvard College, his first time away from home. He found the place so intoxicating that within a year or so he had been kicked out and had taken a cooling-off job in the Boston Public Library, where he studied, among other things, the pages of The New Yorker -- not only the articles but the advertisements. In time Sissman returned to Harvard, graduated with honors in 1949 as Class Poet, married a literary and somewhat unstable woman, and started out on the postwar ordeal of the Job Search -- first in Boston, then in New York. The search ended in cordial failure in every literary profession he could imagine (proofreading, copyediting, even sales). Crumpled, he returned to Boston, his spiritual home, and before long found the advertising profession, where he was an instant and complete success. After his first marriage broke up he married again and moved to the country outside Boston, where he began to chronicle, in splendid poetic particularity, the events of his life, ordinary as they were.



For the next decade, from 1964 to 1974, Sissman wrote poems (short and long, narrative and lyric, celebratory and nostalgic), mostly about the life of professional and business males in peace and war, in Boston and New York. A characteristic Sissman poem is written in blank or rhymed verse and tells a story. "Did Shriner die, or make it to New York?" is the sort of question asked, as in his poem "To Happenings in Boston." In the poems "In and Out" he told the story of his checkered college career. In "The Marschallin, Joy Street, July 3, 1949" he portrayed a Beacon Hill grand dame presiding over Boston. In "A War Requiem" he tried to narrate the story of his life and its origins, ranging back to the First World War and approaching the imminent escalation in Vietnam. In "Dying: An Introduction" Sissman recounted, with clinical accuracy and autobiographical objectivity, the discovery that he had Hodgkin's disease, an illness he knew to be routinely fatal.

In a remarkably short time Sissman's poems began to appear in The Atlantic Monthly and The New Yorker. Both magazines solicited not only his verse but his prose: he wrote book reviews for The New Yorker and a regular column for The Atlantic. Three books of his poems came out, in 1968, 1969, and 1971. In 1971 a volume of his Atlantic columns was published under the title Innocent Bystander. He suffered cyclical bouts of Hodgkins Disease but kept gamely at his writing and his profession; when he received a Guggenheim Fellowship he merely took a six-week elongated vacation and returned to his commuter train and his creative vice presidency at Kenyon & Eckhardt Advertising. But the energy began to fail.

By 1974 Sissman could no longer write poems. In March, 1976, he died, having just delivered his last Innocent Bystander column. As his literary executor I discovered in his files a number of penciled yet polished poems, mainly dedicated to that most difficult of tasks, the contemplation of his own dissolution. These poems, culminating in the austere and affecting "Tras Os Montes," stand as powerful and uncompromising witnesses to the approach and arrival of death. They were published posthumously in magazines and in a volume of collected poems titled Hello, Darkness (1978), which won the praise of such critics as Hilton Kramer, John Updike, and William Pritchard, and also won the poetry award of the National Book Critics Circle. Since then Sissman's poems have been much published and widely anthologized, and I've recently edited a new selection of his poems, titled Night Music.

Sissman's position among poets of his time is anomalous. He did not follow the genius-in-the-garret route to poetry, nor did he come to teach fledgling poets in workshops, or indulge, or even tolerate, the excesses of either the Left or the Right in the 1960s. He was that very ordinary figure: a hardworking professional middle-class man, a northeastern liberal Democrat given to householding, marriage, and interesting hobbies like photography and sports cars -- and also to something that went beyond both professions and hobbies: the calling of poet.

The influence of Sissman's poetry has now survived into a second generation. The poet Brad Leithauser, born after Sissman graduated from college, declared in The New Criterion that "[Sissman] can serve as a model to every contemporary poet." And Edward Hirsch, in the foreword to Night Music, states, "He provides an example of wit schooled by feeling and deepened by experience, of intellect coming together with restrained but warm underlying emotion, of poetic freedom enabled by expertise."
https://www.theatlantic.com/past/docs/unbound/poetry/sissman.htm

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#19
Homage to Clotho: A Hospital Suite
By L. E. Sissman
1

Nowhere is all around us, pressureless,
A vacuum waiting for a rupture in
The tegument, a puncture in the skin,
To pass inside without a password and
Implode us into Erewhon. This room
Is dangerously unguarded: in one wall
An empty elevator clangs its doors,
Imperiously, for fodder; in the hall,
Bare stretchers gape for commerce; in the air
Outside, a trembling, empty brightness falls
In hunger on those whom it would devour
Like any sparrow hawk as darkness falls
And rises silently up the steel stairs
To the eleventh and last floor, where I
Reside on sufferance of authorities
Until my visas wither, and I die.


2

Where is my friend, Rodonda Morton Schiff,
Whose hulk breasts, cygnet-like, the Totensee,
Shrilling her bosun’s whistles, piping Death—
The Almirante of the Doldrums in
His black cocked hat and braided cape—aboard
Her scuttling vessel with such poems as just
Escape confounding his gaunt **** with lust?
She should be singing my song at this hour.


3

It is a simple matter to be brave
In facing a black screen with a white FIN—
The final title—fading out as all
Credits have faded in the final crawl,
To which the audience has turned its back
And mumbled, shuffled, struggled into coats
On its way out to face a different night;
It is far harder, in the light of day,
Surrounded by striped student nurses, to
Endure a slight procedure in which you
Are the anatomy lesson in pink paint
Splashed by some master on the tinctured air,
Complete, in gross detail, to the grimace
Denoted by a squiggle on your face
As the bone-marrow needle sinks its fang
Through atomies of drugged and dullard skin
And subcutaneum to pierce the thin,
Tough eggshell of the pelvic arch, wherein—
After steam-hammer pressure—it will suck
Up sips of specimen tissue with a pain
Akin to an extraction under gas,
All gravity against all hollowness.
Affronted and affrighted, I can’t pass
This episode in silent dignity
Or bloodless banter; I must sweat and grunt
And moan in corporal fear of corporal pain
Too venial to be mortal, making a fool
Of my lay figure in its textbook pose
(Fig. 1) before these starched and giggling girls
Too young to be let out of simpering school
To meet live terror face to face and lose.


4

Why must the young male nurse who preps the plain
Of my knife-thrower’s-target abdomen
With his conversant razor, talking snicks
Of scything into my sedated ears,
Talk also in his flat and friendly voice,
So far from showdowns, on a blasé note
Of reassurance, learnt by classroom rote?
It is that he must make his living, too.


5

If Hell abides on earth this must be it:
This too-bright-lit-at-all-hours-of-the-day-
And-night recovery room, where nurses flit
In stroboscopic steps between the beds
All cheek by jowl that hold recoverers
Suspended in the grog of half-damped pain
And tubularities of light-blue light.
For condiment in this mulled mix, there are
Assorted groans and screams; and, lest repose
Outstrip the sufferer, there is his own
Throat-filling Gobi, mucous membrane gone
Dry as Arabia, as barren of
Hydropsy as a sunburnt cage of bone
Perched on parched rocks where game Parcheesian
(A devil figure, this) went, wended his
Bent way to harvest, for a shekel, rugs,
And pack them back by camel over sands
Of nightmare to transship to richer lands
Where millions of small rills plash into streams
That give rise to great rivers—such wet dreams
Afflict the desiccate on their interminable way
Up through the layers of half-light to day.


6

The riddle of the Sphinx. Man walks on three
Legs at the last. I walk on three, one of
Which is a wheeled I.V. pole, when I rise
From bed the first time to make my aged way
Into the toilet, where, while my legs sway
And the pole sways, swinging its censer high,
I wait to urinate, and cannot make
My mortal coils distill a drop, as time
Stumps past and leaves me swaying there. Defeat:
I roll and hobble back to bed, to the
Refrain of cheeping wheels. Soon the young man
With his snake-handler’s fist of catheters
Will come to see me and supply the lack
Of my drugged muscles with the gravity
Of his solution, and I’ll void into
A beige bag clipped to the bedside, one of
The bottles, bags, and tubes I’m tethered to
As a condition of continuance.
The body swells until it duns the mind
With importunities in this refined,
White-sheeted torture, practiced by a kind,
Withdrawn white face trained in the arts of love.


7

Home, and the lees of autumn scuttle up
To my halt feet: fat, sportive maple leaves
Struck into ochre by the frost and stripped
From their umbilic cords to skate across
The blacktop drive and fetch up on my shoes
As if including me in their great fall,
Windy with rumors of the coming ice.
Though fallen, frostbit, yellowed also, I
Cannot participate in their late game
But must leave them to hide and seek a place
To decompose in, while I clamber up
Long enneads of stairs to the room where
I’ll recompose myself to durance in
A world of voices and surprises, for
As long as Clotho draws my filament—
To my now flagging wonder and applause—
From indefatigable spinnerets,
Until her sister widows, having set
The norms for length and texture of each strand
And sharpened their gross shears, come cut it off
And send me to befriend the winter leaves.
Highly recommend.

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