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Albert Speer
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Puerile Polemic
Mar 1999
time: 00:28
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agathon:
it's weird... they were some horny ass poets back hundreds of years ago... basically saying, 'lets have sex while you're still young'... it kind of funny to see them like that couplet you showed was funny in its rudeness
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Albert Speer
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Puerile Polemic
Mar 1999
time: 00:28
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Lazarus... that's it... Marvell... he was horny too.
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FrustratedPoet
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All Glory To The Hypnotoad!
Mar 2002
time: 05:28
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I'm a bit of a fan of the Earl of Rochester. Anyone who writes a poem called "Signior Dildo" and another (a section quoted below) about premature ejaculation has got to be worth reading.
quote:
The Imperfect Enjoyment
Naked she lay, clasped in my longing arms,
I filled with love, and she all over charms;
Both equally inspired with eager fire,
Melting through kindness, flaming in desire.
With arms,legs,lips close clinging to embrace,
She clips me to her breast, and sucks me to her face.
Her nimble tongue, Love's lesser lightening, played
Within my mouth, and to my thoughts conveyed
Swift orders that I should prepare to throw
The all-dissolving thunderbolt below.
My fluttering soul, sprung with the painted kiss,
Hangs hovering o'er her balmy brinks of bliss.
But whilst her busy hand would guide that part
Which should convey my soul up to her heart,
In liquid raptures I dissolve all o'er,
Melt into sperm and, and spend at every pore.
A touch from any part of her had done't:
Her hand, her foot, her very look's a ****.
Smiling, she chides in a kind murmuring noise,
And from her body wipes the clammy joys,
When, with a thousand kisses wandering o'er
My panting bosom, "Is there then no more?"
She cries. "All this to love and rapture's due;
Must we not pay a debt to pleasure too?"
But I, the most forlorn, lost man alive,
To show my wished obedience vainly strive:
I sigh, alas! and kiss, but cannot swive.
Eager desires confound my first intent,
Succeeding shame does more success prevent,
And rage at last confirms me impotent. |
For the full uncensored version go to http://www.druidic.isles.net/roc_sat.htm#Imperfect
Warning! Naughty words inside!
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Albert Speer
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Puerile Polemic
Mar 1999
time: 00:28
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England in the 17th century at the height of the Puritan Protective...
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Drogue
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Omnipresent conscience
Oct 2002
time: 05:28
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Actually, I've just been reading a poem, given to me by my best friend (and on-off girlfriend) because of me leaving in a few weeks. I really don't care if it sounds soft, and you'll probably think it's just a load of quote:
pretentious garbage |
but it made me cry, which I think was the intended reaction 
Leaving and Leaving You - Sophie Hannah
When I leave you postcode and your commuting station,
When I left undone all the things we planned to do
You may feel you have been left by association
But there is leaving and leaving you.
When I leave your town and the club that you belong to,
When I leave without much warning or much regret
Remember, there's doing wrong and there's doing wrong to
You, which I'll never do and I haven't yet,
And when I have gone, remember that in weighing
Everything up, from love to a cheaper rent,
You were all the reasons I thought of staying
And none of the reasons why I went
And although I leave your sight and I leave your setting
And our separation is soon to be a fact,
Though you stand beside what I'm leaving and forgetting,
I'm not leaving you, not if motive makes the act.
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Drogue
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Omnipresent conscience
Oct 2002
time: 05:28
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I'll try and find an Andrew Marvell one, "To His Coy Mistress" or more accurately called "how to get a girl into bed". I just want to know if it worked.
Edit: I saw it had been spoken about. I got to do my English GCSE studying this  My teachers have some taste 
Edit 2: Found it 
To his Coy Mistress - Andrew Marvell
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day;
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood;
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserv'd virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
Last edited by Drogue on 10-05-2003 at 03:18
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BustaMike
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You think you're better than me? You've been handling my ass pennies!!!
Nov 1999
time: 21:28
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...which is apparantly what happened to the thread.
I don't really read poetry too often, but I definately know music. The last part of American Pie has always struck me as one of the saddest verses ever written.
quote:
I met a girl who sang the blues and I asked her for some happy news but she just smiled and turned away, I went down to the sacred store where I'd heard the music years before but the man there said the music wouldn't play and in the streets the children screamed, the lovers cried, and the poets dreamed but not a word was spoken, the church bells all were broken and the three men I admire most, the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost, they caught the last train for the coast, the day, the music, died. |
I'm way too young to have loved Buddy Holly, but I think this still relates to stuff today. RIP - Layne Staley
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St Leo
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Member of the Apolyton Social Democratic Party
Jul 2005
time: 00:28
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quote:
The Story of Mel
A recent article devoted to the macho side of programming
made the bald and unvarnished statement:
Real Programmers write in FORTRAN.
Maybe they do now,
in this decadent era of
Lite beer, hand calculators, and "user-friendly" software
but back in the Good Old Days,
when the term "software" sounded funny
and Real Computers were made out of drums and vacuum tubes,
Real Programmers wrote in machine code.
Not FORTRAN. Not RATFOR. Not, even, assembly language.
Machine Code.
Raw, unadorned, inscrutable hexadecimal numbers.
Directly.
Lest a whole new generation of programmers
grow up in ignorance of this glorious past,
I feel duty-bound to describe,
as best I can through the generation gap,
how a Real Programmer wrote code.
I'll call him Mel,
because that was his name.
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The rest of it.
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10-05-2003 02:50
Really? Oh well...
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