Poets Corner

Flights of the mind... flights of fantasy... words of joy to put your mind onto that etheral level of the Gods. XenoxNews Poetry.

Why I Smoke Dope

Created: Thursday, 21 March 2013
Written by Hippie Lost In Love

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The world is like my Lady's Secret Garden...

chrissie

so. I light the bong now and then.

And the flames they don't tell me a lie..
When stoned time does dwell and tarry
Not in a hurry; now I understand
My fingers feel all the better.
and when my cock is in my hand...

sat on many a couch
watching the TV stand, but took no notice and I now I know why;
cause i was stoned.
Perhaps even lost.

Nowadays i am is most time drunk must be how you wind down to pulling the plug and finally saying goodbye...

Sitting here thinking...thinking...well...

XenoxNews.com Classic #Poetry

Created: Tuesday, 04 September 2012
Written by Tex Lumbago

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During our many years of publication XenoxNews.com has been a welcoming home for poets and their poetry. In fact we love poetry so much we have a whole section dedicated to it: http://www.xenoxnews.com/artist/poets-corner


Unfortunately not all our poetry can be found there; and in fact some rhymes that grace our pages can slip from view with the passing of time. So I have decided to resurrect some of our best (and worst) from the archives so you, dear reader, can appreciate the wonder of XenoxNews. com Poetry!



Here is a classic from Old Lonely Leo. He was inspired to write after the Howard Government reneged on their promise to wipe the GST from tissues:

For some naked vixens on the screen,
I emptied my sack of its semen.

Now I sit alone and wonder...


Oh Lord! For what have I spilt my seed?


I watched them frolic and insert in each other,

Devices plastic, see through, and green.

But now my keyboard is wet and my hands still sticky...


Oh Lord! For what have I spilt my seed?

 

Other ditties are perhaps not so graceful. In fact they are downright offensive. Take this example from our resident hillbilly Ricardovitz. It is gross and despicable; but what euphony! You can always substitute your most disliked person(s) in place of the rascist epithet he uses:

 

The other day I took a fishin' trip
Just me and my boat, and no Banjo lip
Banjo was my guide, an old colored feller
He wasn't very dark, he was a high-steppin' yeller
So we launched my boat, and I cranked my motor
And up to my nose came a terrible odor
I looked around, tryin' to find somethin' dead
But it was Banjo with his arm up, scratchin' his head

Some niggers never die

They just smell that way

Now the more he'd scratch, the more he'd sweat

And I'm here to say he was-a-chokin' me to death
So we loaded up, I just couldn't go o­n
And I coughed and I gagged, all the way home
When I dropped him off, I was next to dine
My nose was-a-runnin, and my eyes were-a-cryin'
The smell scorched the hair right out of my nose
When I got home I had to burn all my clothes

Some niggers never die

They just smell that way

 

Not much you can say after that, is there.

Except to let you know that I will be ferreting out more classics over the coming weeks, so keep your eyes open for XenoxNews.com Poetry!

 

 

CADAVER CORPUSCLE

Created: Wednesday, 14 December 2011
Written by Jolting Fucking Joe

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My cadaver corpuscle baby
you so sweet to me now and again
for later
but you always are
my special
corpuscle romance

My cadaver corpuscle sweetheart
long for rectitude
you cause me to take stock
once in a while
corporeal romance

My cadaver corpuscle sinew
stretched together
we
experience a lot together
over the times and forever now
until we be dead
until we be dead

boney_hand

twat muncher

Created: Saturday, 20 August 2011
Written by Pervis

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My quaser
My quaser
redacted
foresight
trouble
irudite
actually
partial
articulate
erudite
volcano aardvaark polevault
hysterectomy what the fuck
aryldite
argon
armchair
remember when
whenever you like
aardvaark or neighbourhood fence with treees behind
broken bottles dirt pavement
dirt
My quasar

My quasar

redacted

foresight

trouble

erudite

actually

partial

articulate

volcano
aardvark
polevault

what the fuck

areldyte

argonn

armchair

remember when

whenever you like

aardvaark or neighbourhood fence with trees behind

broken bottles dirt pavement

WHETSTONE

Created: Saturday, 25 June 2011
Written by Misha

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Gazing at a gibbous moon and rising like a lead balloon, exhausting every star and relishing the distance, no matter how far, wishing you were here and I was there, so far gone, so far so good, gone for good. You seek answers to non-existent questions, as if the wind or sun or sky hold secrets other than their beauty and reality. Why ask questions when bright facts, like air, are there for all eternity? Piercing this external shell of skin and flesh is just a matter of testing what is fresh and pure. Feel that prick and watch that rising fleck of blood, so serene as it wells from an inner life. There it is: the world's rim, right there, where sky and sea and shoreline meet and debate the future. A window's glare forces my eye its way but it's all a sad fraud, merely reflecting the rampant sun as its dips to its well-earned bed. Watching the horizon, waiting for twilight, the light turning winking waves into plunging mermaids while wild birds peep and prattle in the trees as if disputing the need for night. Your kiss, so fragile, so fleeting, haunts and fools my reason yet means more than history and the ever expanding universe. So kiss me again, just a touch, just a whisper. Nothing more matters. Please kiss me but don't tell me I must map the future when the past is still so vivid, so strong that every scent and sound and hidden glimpse hammers home our mortality? Love and lust go hand in glove but bones stripped bare of flesh make a mockery of science and genius seems vapid. You say I should make plans and plot my outcome but the mess in which you dwell reflects the mess within my head. I care not for the future; it will have its way. But to briefly rest upon your unmade bed is all that I desire, any time, any day. Bygones are not bygones but by God I will not - cannot - change. A blank canvas is easily defaced. A blot, a spit, a streak of paint or blood fakes choices where no choice exists. Grab your dripping brush or pen or blade and curse the fucking world and that corrupt circus we label life. Cut as deep as you dare and paint or ink will gout. Don't give me Leonard Coen or Gilliam's Brothers Grimm, the poetry of breathing is all I need to dream. Down, down I go to places no-one else will ever know, so fascinating that all I can do to make sense of it all is to open my skin again and again. Make no mistake or take the consequences; make of it what you willingly decide. I care not for the future, the past is bad enough. So spare me your clumsy redemption, ashes to ashes suits me. Smoke mirrors my memory, true or false, but scars abide. The sun never lets me down, even as it sinks. I love your love despite the tick-tocking clock and the flickering embers; life is canker, as you very well know, rancid from the start. There is no choice, no deep, deep heart of the matter, no art to justify this cesspool in which we wade. Born into death we thrash and fret and make our mark, a scratch upon a dark cavern wall, with no idea if its love or lava or blood at all. Go ahead; cast a line and watch it sink. Watch the sun. Take a drink. Slowly, slowly fades the sun, fades the senses, fades the future. Yes, there is a word called Love in a world called dog-eat-dog but dogs in love and dreadful worlds abound so why not hack off a limb or two? What's the point? Here's the point: an edge so fine it shivers. Cut to the chase, commemorate the detritus, despite struggling memory and frightened courage. So here I sit, sunlight winking in the branches, birds darting all around, a stinging blade dancing along my skin, a story told in welling cuneiform. I think of then and now and later and shrug away the world's excesses.The sword is mightier than the pen. All weapons fail in this war of reason against instinct. Etch as deep as you dare; fabricate a future that makes sense. A future, a past, a here and now, a daily dose of misunderstanding as the house burns down. All is well. All is done. All is one. All. Is. You decide.

quiet_american

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


The Old Fella

Created: Sunday, 29 May 2011
Written by Royal Tenenbaum

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THE OLD FELLA

My old fella ain't that old
But by Christ the water's cold;
What was once a mighty whale
Looks more like a shrivelled snail.

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