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Thread: this is now a poetry thread.

  1. #1
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    Default this is now a poetry thread.

    Quoting something so I can have it later if I need it for something...never mind me.

    "And so it begins.
    Dark clouds gather.
    The skies rumble threateningly.
    Followed by an unnatural calm.
    But then, the calm vanishes.
    ... and lightening strikes.

    The storm has broken -
    - it's wrath unleashed.
    And each of us
    Must face it's torrential rage
    In his own way.

    Coldly analytical and deliberate,
    Militantly disciplined and precise,
    Absurdly unorthodox and carefree,
    Wretchedly Misguided and vengeful,
    And with the bittersweet experience of centuries.

    I have defeated old Hob before.
    Then, as now, the battle was fierce.
    But what once was solely a fight for survival...
    Has become very personal.

    Eventually the tempest subsides
    And what began with a ferocious roar
    Ends in uncertain silence.

    We have not forgotten.

    It is simply the calm before the next storm."

    -Master Splinter
    Last edited by Oisterman; 07-02-2014 at 07:36 PM.

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    can we just throw lots of poetry in here

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    No Nick. Stop listening to that shite, open a can of Tennants and come join the boys. We're watching 8 Out of 10 Cats Does Countdown.

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    Death i embrace thee.
    Death i feel your cold dead hands.
    Oh to how the corpse rots and decays.
    But to you that is death you do not fear death for you are death.
    May all mankind be wiped from existence.
    May a great swarm of locusts take us out.May they bring many deaths from the four corners of the world.
    May the sky blacken.
    May the moon bleed and cryith with tears of blood.
    May the pale rider reap what we sowed.
    May justice be served and may the gates of Hades stay open.
    May the wicked be smited and punished with sores and lashes of broken flesh with many pain. May the plague grow and kill each and all of us.
    May the great seals open one by one.
    May death to whom i embrace reap all souls. The worthy and unworthy.
    May the harlot be struck down like the whore she is. May the sinful drink from her goblet and that to whom drink shall die.
    May the seven churches rise.
    May the four beasts be unleashed upon the world.
    May the four riders upon there great steeds bring destruction to all mankind.
    May the blasphemers and hypocrites be crucified upon broken crosses and as they take there last breath embrace Hades for its what was in there hearts.
    May the saints protect us.
    May god above smite the wicked with great justice.
    For death walks. She brings great pain but great pleasure to the worthy.
    For in the end all will be judge for there wickedness.
    To the human race may we all die.
    And may death reap us like the farmer reaps the corn.
    And that is my letter to all.

    i cant write at all >.< but tried

  5. #5
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    Quote Originally Posted by postrook View Post
    can we just throw lots of poetry in here
    Yeah, why not. It didn't seem like poetry in its original context but like this I guess I see it.

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    We are the music makers,
    And we are the dreamers of dreams,
    Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
    And sitting by desolate streams;—
    World-losers and world-forsakers,
    On whom the pale moon gleams:
    Yet we are the movers and shakers
    Of the world for ever, it seems.

    With wonderful deathless ditties
    We build up the world's great cities,
    And out of a fabulous story
    We fashion an empire's glory:
    One man with a dream, at pleasure,
    Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
    And three with a new song's measure
    Can trample a kingdom down.

    We, in the ages lying
    In the buried past of the earth,
    Built Nineveh with our sighing,
    And Babel itself in our mirth;
    And o'erthrew them with prophesying
    To the old of the new world's worth;
    For each age is a dream that is dying,
    Or one that is coming to birth.

    A breath of our inspiration
    Is the life of each generation;
    A wondrous thing of our dreaming
    Unearthly, impossible seeming—
    The soldier, the king, and the peasant
    Are working together in one,
    Till our dream shall become their present,
    And their work in the world be done.

    They had no vision amazing
    Of the goodly house they are raising;
    They had no divine foreshowing
    Of the land to which they are going:
    But on one man's soul it hath broken,
    A light that doth not depart;
    And his look, or a word he hath spoken,
    Wrought flame in another man's heart.

    And therefore to-day is thrilling
    With a past day's late fulfilling;
    And the multitudes are enlisted
    In the faith that their fathers resisted,
    And, scorning the dream of to-morrow,
    Are bringing to pass, as they may,
    In the world, for its joy or its sorrow,
    The dream that was scorned yesterday.

    But we, with our dreaming and singing,
    Ceaseless and sorrowless we!
    The glory about us clinging
    Of the glorious futures we see,
    Our souls with high music ringing:
    O men! it must ever be
    That we dwell, in our dreaming and singing,
    A little apart from ye.

    For we are afar with the dawning
    And the suns that are not yet high,
    And out of the infinite morning
    Intrepid you hear us cry—
    How, spite of your human scorning,
    Once more God's future draws nigh,
    And already goes forth the warning
    That ye of the past must die.

    Great hail! we cry to the c****s
    From the dazzling unknown shore;
    Bring us hither your sun and your summers;
    And renew our world as of yore;
    You shall teach us your song's new numbers,
    And things that we dreamed not before:
    Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers,
    And a singer who sings no more.

  7. #7


    Quote Originally Posted by Aurthur Guiterman
    The tusks which clashed in mighty brawls
    Of mastodons, are billiard balls.
    The sword of Charlemagne the Just
    Is Ferric Oxide, known as rust.
    The grizzly bear, whose potent hug,
    Was feared by all, is now a rug.
    Great Caesar's bust is on the shelf,
    And I don't feel so well myself.
    Quote Originally Posted by Billy Collins
    The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
    He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
    that he barks every time they leave the house.
    They must switch him on on their way out.

    The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
    I close all the windows in the house
    and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
    but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
    barking, barking, barking,

    and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
    his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
    had included a part for barking dog.

    When the record finally ends he is still barking,
    sitting there in the oboe section barking,
    his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
    entreating him with his baton

    while the other musicians listen in respectful
    silence to the famous barking dog solo,
    that endless coda that first established
    Beethoven as an innovative genius.
    . .
    Quote Originally Posted by Emily Dickinson
    I had no time to hate, because
    The grave would hinder me,
    And life was not so ample I
    Could finish enmity.

    Nor had I time to love; but since
    Some industry must be,
    The little toil of love, I thought,
    Was large enough for me.

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    le crépiscule du soir / comes the charming evening

    Comes the charming evening, the criminal’s friend,
    Comes conspirator-like on soft wolf tread.
    Like a large alcove the sky slowly closes,
    And man approaches his bestial metamorphosis.

    To arms that have laboured, evening is kind enough,
    Easing the strain of sinews that have borne their rough
    Share of the burden; it is evening that relents
    To those whom an angry obsession daily haunts.
    The solitary student now raises a burdened head
    And the back that bent daylong sinks into its bed.
    Meanwhile darkness dawns, filled with demon familiars
    Who rouse, reluctant as business-men, to their affairs,
    Their ponderous fligh trattling the shutters and blinds.
    Against the lamplight, whose shivering is the wind’s,
    Prostitution spreads its light and life in the streets:
    Like an anthill opening its issues it penetrates
    Mysteriously everywhere by its own occult route;
    Like an enemy mining the foundations of a fort,
    Or a worm in an apple, eating what all should eat,
    It circulates securely in the city’s clogged heart.
    The heat and hiss of kitchens can be felt here and there,
    The panting of heavy bands, the theatres’ clamour.
    Cheap hotels, the haunts of dubious solaces,
    Are filling with tarts, and crooks, their sleek accomplices,
    And thieves, who have never heard of restraint or remorse,
    Return now to their work asa matter of course,
    Forcing safes behind carefully re-locked doors,
    To get a few days’ living and put clothes on their whores.
    Collect yourself, my soul, this is a serious moment.
    Pay no further attention to the noise and movement.
    This is the hour when the pains of the sick sharpen,
    Night touches them like a torturer, pushes them to the open
    Trapdoor over the gulf that is all too common.
    Their groans overflow the hospital. More than one
    Will not come back to taste the soup’s familiar flavour
    In the evening with some friendly soul, by his own fire.

    Indeed, many a one has never even known
    The hearth’s warmth. Pity such a one.

    Voici le soir charmant, ami du criminel;
    Il vient comme un complice, à pas de loup: le ciel
    Se ferme lentement comme une grande alcôve,
    Et l'homme impatient se change en bête fauve.

    O soir, aimable soir, désiré par celui
    Dont les bras, sans mentir, peuvent dire: Aujourd'hui
    Nous avons travaillé! - C'est le soir qui soulage
    Les esprits que dévore une douleur sauvage,
    Le savant obstiné dont le front s'alourdit,
    Et l'ouvrier courbé qui regagne son lit.
    Cependant des démons malsains dans l'atmosphère
    S'éveillent lourdement, comme des gens d'affaire,
    Et cognent en volant les volets et l'auvent.
    A travers les lueurs que tourmente le vent
    La Prostitution s'allume dans les rues;
    Comme une fourmilière elle ouvre ses issues;
    Partout elle se fraye un occulte chemin,
    Ainsi que l'ennemi qui tente un coup de main;
    Elle remue au sein de la cité de fange
    Comme un ver qui dérobe à l'Homme ce qu'il mange.
    On entend çà et là les cuisines siffler,
    Les théâtres glapir, les orchestres ronfler;
    Les tables d'hôte, dont le jeu fait les délices,
    S'emplissent de catins et d'escrocs, leurs complices,
    Et les voleurs, qui n'ont ni trêve ni merci,
    Vont bientôt commencer leur travail, eux aussi,
    Et forcer doucement les portes et les caisses
    Pour vivre quelques jours et vêtir leurs maîtresses.

    Recueille-toi, mon âme, en ce grave moment,
    Et ferme ton oreille à ce rugissement.
    C'est l'heure où les douleurs des malades s'aigrissent!
    La sombre Nuit les prend à la gorge; ils finissent
    Leur destinée et vont vers leur gouffre commun;
    L'hôpital se remplit de leurs soupirs. - Plus d'un
    Ne viendra plus chercher la soupe parfumée,
    Au coin du feu, le soir, auprès d'une âme aimée.

    Encore la plupart n'ont-ils jamais connu
    La douceur du foyer et n'ont jamais vécu!
    Last edited by postrook; 07-03-2014 at 02:10 AM.

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    Body Bag

    You've made your mark;
    Exceeding muscle and tissue.
    It stopped at the heart;
    To laugh and critisize.
    It shrank it to a size so minute;
    It questions the continuity of existence.
    An unhealthy disorder inherited;
    By the bloodflow of the masses.
    Clogging its veins with a batch of homemade venom;
    Steadily increasing the dosage.
    The arteries distressed-fluid seeps through paper-punched holes;
    Concluding in the toxic liquid absorbing into the carpet.
    Days could pass, and you could remove the body;
    But the stain still remains.
    Entitle me to my opinion;
    But I forgot what it was.


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    can we have a loric vs xeno rap battle :]

  11. #11
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    loric can't rhyme

    he ain't worth even a dime

  12. #12


    One of my favorites.

    Quote Originally Posted by Charles Bukowski
    the police helicopter keeps circling over the yard
    "what do they want?" I ask her.
    "they're probably looking for you," she says.
    this is not as far-fetched as you might think:
    I went to a bar one night with some friends
    and the owner came out from around the bar
    and asked to speak to me.
    "I don't know if we can serve you or not,
    you must promise to be good,
    you created quite a fuss the last time you
    were here."
    I promised him to be good and that night
    I drank under a great deal of strain.

    anyhow, the helicopter keeps circling
    and it is one o'clock in the afternoon
    but the night before it had circled and circled
    shining its beam into the backyard
    and into the crapper.
    it had circled for 45 minutes, then had left.

    now it is back.
    "what the hell?" I say,
    "they want you", she says,
    "this is ridiculous," I say.
    I walk into the backyard.
    there's nothing out there:
    walnut trees, bamboo stalks, a discarded
    sofa and grass 3 feet high.
    I stand out there and watch the helicopter
    circling, circling.
    it finally leaves.

    I come back in.
    "I feel like John Dillinger," I say.
    "you look like John Dillinger," she says.
    I walk to the mirror.
    it's true: I look like John Dillinger,
    but no woman in a red dress could ever
    finger me. I'm
    too smart.

    Probably my favorite ever.

    Quote Originally Posted by Lawrence Ferlinghetti
    it was like this when
    we waltz into this place
    a couple of Papish cats
    is doing an Aztec two-step
    And I says
    Dad let's cut
    but then this dame
    comes up behind me see
    and says
    You and me could really exist
    Wow I says
    Only the next day
    she has bad teeth
    and really hates
    Last edited by $$$; 07-03-2014 at 04:55 AM.

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    A simple pleasure, is without measure
    the greatest treasure, one could find
    A single thought, more often than not
    can be sought, within the mind
    Given form, within the storm
    comes a warm, feeling of joy
    Emotions run wild, no longer vialed
    as a child, with a new toy
    Happiness spiraling, the mind begins compiling
    a new styling, into our focus
    With this force, it stays the course
    To become the source, of our greatest opus
    Be careful of what you say, tomorrow or today, for the words you now speak, may become the poison your enemies later seek; truth.

    "Rules do not exist to bind you, they exist so you may know your freedoms"

  14. #14
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    The weeping.

    I here the weeping dead. Oh how they make me tremble in fear.
    I here the dead call my name.
    I feel them nearath me.Oh how the dead can come in great numbers.
    The cry's of fear and pain.
    The crows with feathers as black as a women's sat cloth.
    They come for me in many numbers.I fear them not.
    Death she said was near.I fear her not.
    The cold hand creep upon me.Its boney hand creepith upon me.With old grey skin.
    The women in the old rocking chair with hair as white as snow and eyes as grey as a dead mans stare.
    Love me not for thee doth not know me.
    Trust me not for doth not know me.
    I am the bringer of war said the man in black with broken wings.
    Death comeith and i praise it.
    The blood stained streets of the many dead people.
    The ravens peak there old dead eyes.
    The maggots crow and eat there flesh.
    I walk along the dead with a flock of locust and a chalice of plague.
    I here the weeping of the many souls of dead.
    Upon Hades i enter.
    Upon Hades i enter with a flock of dead ravens.
    We bring torment.
    We bring death.
    The four riders of death shall rise.
    They shall bring great death.
    The dead shall weep in fear.
    Forgiveness they ask and shall not receive.
    For there hearts are turned to stone.
    The weep will be many.
    The pure will be few.
    Oh how the weep haunt me.
    Oh death and the saints comeith to me.
    Raise me above to my heavenly paradise.
    Weep not for i am embrace by love.
    This is my letter to all.

    I really wish i could write better.

  15. #15


    Quote Originally Posted by duby View Post
    I really wish i could write better.
    read more. have you heard of Sylvia Plath or Dylan Thomas? you might like them, they go way darker than yr music

    Quote Originally Posted by Sylvia Plath
    I have done it again.
    One year in every ten
    I manage it--

    A sort of walking miracle, my skin
    Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
    My right foot

    A paperweight,
    My face a featureless, fine
    Jew linen.

    Peel off the napkin
    O my enemy.
    Do I terrify?--

    The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
    The sour breath
    Will vanish in a day.

    Soon, soon the flesh
    The grave cave ate will be
    At home on me

    And I a smiling woman.
    I am only thirty.
    And like the cat I have nine times to die.

    This is Number Three.
    What a trash
    To annihilate each decade.

    What a million filaments.
    The peanut-crunching crowd
    Shoves in to see

    Them unwrap me hand and foot--
    The big strip tease.
    Gentlemen, ladies

    These are my hands
    My knees.
    I may be skin and bone,

    Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
    The first time it happened I was ten.
    It was an accident.

    The second time I meant
    To last it out and not come back at all.
    I rocked shut

    As a seashell.
    They had to call and call
    And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

    Is an art, like everything else.
    I do it exceptionally well.

    I do it so it feels like hell.
    I do it so it feels real.
    I guess you could say I’ve a call.

    It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.
    It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.
    It’s the theatrical

    Comeback in broad day
    To the same place, the same face, the same brute
    Amused shout:

    ‘A miracle!'
    That knocks me out.
    There is a charge

    For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
    For the hearing of my heart--
    It really goes.

    And there is a charge, a very large charge
    For a word or a touch
    Or a bit of blood

    Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
    So, so, Herr Doktor.
    So, Herr Enemy.

    I am your opus,
    I am your valuable,
    The pure gold baby

    That melts to a shriek.
    I turn and burn.
    Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

    Ash, ash--
    You poke and stir.
    Flesh, bone, there is nothing there--

    A cake of soap,
    A wedding ring,
    A gold filling.

    Herr God, Herr Lucifer

    Out of the ash
    I rise with my red hair
    And I eat men like air.
    Quote Originally Posted by Dylan Thomas
    Too proud to die; broken and blind he died
    The darkest way, and did not turn away,
    A cold kind man brave in his narrow pride

    On that darkest day, Oh, forever may
    He lie lightly, at last, on the last, crossed
    Hill, under the grass, in love, and there grow

    Young among the long flocks, and never lie lost
    Or still all the numberless days of his death, though
    Above all he longed for his mother's breast

    Which was rest and dust, and in the kind ground
    The darkest justice of death, blind and unblessed.
    Let him find no rest but be fathered and found,

    I prayed in the crouching room, by his blind bed,
    In the muted house, one minute before
    Noon, and night, and light. the rivers of the dead

    Veined his poor hand I held, and I saw
    Through his unseeing eyes to the roots of the sea.
    (An old tormented man three-quarters blind,

    I am not too proud to cry that He and he
    Will never never go out of my mind.
    All his bones crying, and poor in all but pain,

    Being innocent, he dreaded that he died
    Hating his God, but what he was was plain:
    An old kind man brave in his burning pride.

    The sticks of the house were his; his books he owned.
    Even as a baby he had never cried;
    Nor did he now, save to his secret wound.

    Out of his eyes I saw the last light glide.
    Here among the liught of the lording sky
    An old man is with me where I go

    Walking in the meadows of his son's eye
    On whom a world of ills came down like snow.
    He cried as he died, fearing at last the spheres'

    Last sound, the world going out without a breath:
    Too proud to cry, too frail to check the tears,
    And caught between two nights, blindness and death.

    O deepest wound of all that he should die
    On that darkest day. oh, he could hide
    The tears out of his eyes, too proud to cry.

    Until I die he will not leave my side.)
    Quote Originally Posted by Dylan Thomas
    There was an old bugger called God,
    who got a young virgin in pod.
    This disgraceful behaviour
    begot Christ our Saviour,
    who was nailed to a cross, poor old sod.
    have you read any of Edgar Allan Poe's poems? i know he's a junior high hot topic tumblr twilight sort of thing now, but that doesn't make his poems any less beautiful

    Quote Originally Posted by Eddie P
    It was many and many a year ago,
    In a kingdom by the sea,
    That a maiden there lived whom you may know
    By the name of Annabel Lee;
    And this maiden she lived with no other thought
    Than to love and be loved by me.

    I was a child and she was a child,
    In this kingdom by the sea;
    But we loved with a love that was more than love-
    I and my Annabel Lee;
    With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
    Coveted her and me.

    And this was the reason that, long ago,
    In this kingdom by the sea,
    A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
    My beautiful Annabel Lee;
    So that her highborn kinsman came
    And bore her away from me,
    To shut her up in a sepulchre
    In this kingdom by the sea.

    The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
    Went envying her and me-
    Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
    In this kingdom by the sea)
    That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
    Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

    But our love it was stronger by far than the love
    Of those who were older than we-
    Of many far wiser than we-
    And neither the angels in heaven above,
    Nor the demons down under the sea,
    Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

    For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
    And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
    And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
    Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
    In the sepulchre there by the sea,
    In her tomb by the sounding sea.

  16. #16
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    Quote Originally Posted by TheSkald View Post
    read more. have you heard of Sylvia Plath or Dylan Thomas? you might like them, they go way darker than yr music

    have you read any of Edgar Allan Poe's poems? i know he's a junior high hot topic tumblr twilight sort of thing now, but that doesn't make his poems any less beautiful

    i have not. can you give me a link to those you mentioned? i am wanting to learn to write better and i think poems will help me. and yes please do give me the dark stuff thanks man

  17. #17


    Quote Originally Posted by John Godfrey Saxe
    It was six men of Indostan
    To learning much inclined,
    Who went to see the Elephant
    (Though all of them were blind),
    That each by observation
    Might satisfy his mind.

    The First approached the Elephant,
    And happening to fall
    Against his broad and sturdy side,
    At once began to bawl:
    "God bless me! but the Elephant
    Is very like a WALL!"

    The Second, feeling of the tusk,
    Cried, "Ho, what have we here,
    So very round and smooth and sharp?
    To me 'tis mighty clear
    This wonder of an Elephant
    Is very like a SPEAR!"

    The Third approached the animal,
    And happening to take
    The squirming trunk within his hands,
    Thus boldly up and spake:
    "I see," quoth he, "the Elephant
    Is very like a SNAKE!"

    The Fourth reached out an eager hand,
    And felt about the knee
    "What most this wondrous beast is like
    Is mighty plain," quoth he:
    "'Tis clear enough the Elephant
    Is very like a TREE!"

    The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear,
    Said: "E'en the blindest man
    Can tell what this resembles most;
    Deny the fact who can,
    This marvel of an Elephant
    Is very like a FAN!"

    The Sixth no sooner had begun
    About the beast to grope,
    Than seizing on the swinging tail
    That fell within his scope,
    "I see," quoth he, "the Elephant
    Is very like a ROPE!"

    And so these men of Indostan
    Disputed loud and long,
    Each in his own opinion
    Exceeding stiff and strong,
    Though each was partly in the right,
    And all were in the wrong!

    . .
    Quote Originally Posted by Jane Austen
    'I've a pain in my head'
    Said the suffering Beckford;
    To her Doctor so dread.
    'Oh! what shall I take for't?'

    Said this Doctor so dread
    Whose name it was Newnham.
    'For this pain in your head
    Ah! What can you do Ma'am?'

    Said Miss Beckford, 'Suppose
    If you think there's no risk,
    I take a good Dose
    Of calomel brisk.'--

    'What a praise worthy Notion.'
    Replied Mr. Newnham.
    'You shall have such a potion
    And so will I too Ma'am.'

  18. #18
    OnRPG Elite Member! Reputation: 420

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    a gangsta's fairytale by ice cube is probably my favorite

  19. #19


    Quote Originally Posted by Frank White
    "Today's agenda, got the suitcase up in the Sentra
    Go to room 112, tell them Blanco sent ya
    Feel the strangest, if no money exchanges
    I got these kids in Ranges, to leave them niggas brainless
    All they tote is stainless, you just remain as
    Calm as possible, make the deal go through
    If not, here's 12 shots, we know how you do
    Please make your killings clean, slugs up in between
    They eyes, like True Lies, kill them and flee the scene
    Just bring back the coke or the cream
    Or else, your life is on the shelf, we mean this, Frank
    Them cats we fucking with put bombs in your mom's gas tank"

    "Let's get this money baby, they shady, we get shady
    Dress up like ladies and burn them with dirty .380s
    Then they come to kill our babies, that's all out
    I got gats that blow the wall out, clear them all out
    Fuck the fallout, word to Stretch I bet they pussy
    The seven digits push me, fucking real, here's the deal
    I got a hundred bricks, 14,5 a piece
    Enough to cop a 6, buy the house on the beach
    Supply the peeps with Jeeps, brick apiece, capiche?
    Everybody getting cream no one considered a leech"

    Think about it now, that's damn near 1.5
    I kill them all I'll be set for life

    "Frank, pay attention
    These motherfuckers is henchmen, renegades
    If you die they still get paid, extra probably
    fuck a robbery, I'm the boss
    Promise you won't rob 'em,"

    "I promise"
    But of course you know I had my fingers crossed

    Since it's on, I call my nigga Arizona Ron
    From Tuscon, push the black Yukon
    Usually had the slow grooves on, mostly rock the Isley
    Stupid as a young one, chose not the moves wisely
    Sharper with game, him and his crooks caught a Jooks
    Heard it was sweet, about 350 apiece
    Ron bought a truck, two bricks laid in the cut
    His peeps got bucked, got locked the fuck up
    That's when Ron vanished, came back, speaking Spanish
    Lavish habits, two rings, twenty carats
    He's a criminal, nigga made America's Most
    Killed his baby mother brother, slit his throat
    The nigga got bagged with the toast
    Weeded, took it to trial, beat it
    Now he feel he undefeated, he mean it
    Nothing to lose, tattooed around his gun wounds
    Everything to gain, embedded in his brain
    And me I feel the same for this money you dying
    'Specially if my daughter crying, I ain't lying
    Y'all know the science

    We agreed to go in shooting is silly
    Because niggas could be hiding in showers with mac-mills
    So I freaked them, the telly manager was Puerto Rican
    Gloria, from Astoria, I went to war with her
    Peeps in ninety-one, stole a gun from my workers
    And they took drugs, they tried to jerk us
    We blazed they place -- long story. Glo' seen my face
    Got shook, thought a nigga was coming for the safe
    Now she breaking

    "Shut up. 112, what's shaking?"

    "A Jamaican, some bitches I swear, they look gay
    And a black Range Rover, been outside all day
    If it's trouble let me know, I'll be on my way
    Please, I got kids to feed, I done seen you make niggas bleed
    Nightmare, this bitch don't need"

    "Ron, get the gasoline, this spot, we about to blow this
    Get the cash before the cops and Range Rover cats notice"

    Room 112, right by the staircase, perfect place
    When they evacuate, they meet they fate

    "Ron pass the gasoline," -- the nigga passed me kerosene
    Fuck it, it's flame-able, my hunger is unexplainable
    Strike the match, just what I expected
    The dread kid ejected in seconds
    And here come two, opposite sexes, one black, one Malaysian
    We in the hallway waiting patient
    As soon as she hit the door we start blasting
    I saw her brains hit the floor, Ron laughing, I swear to God
    I hit Maxi Priest at least twelve times in the chest
    Spinned around, shot the bitch in the breast
    She crying, head shots put her to rest
    Pop open the briefcases, nothing but Franklin faces
    The spot's hot, sprinklers, alarm systems
    That's when other guests start to slip in
    It's time for us to get to dipping
    I know them niggas in the Range is on they way up
    Flipping, pistol gripping, I load the clip in
    The hallway, got real loud and crowded
    They walked right past us, I don't know how they allowed it
    The funny thing about it, through all the excitement
    They Range got towed, they double parked by a hydrant

    Stupid motherfuckers
    . .

  20. #20
    Cloud13's Clown Reputation: 328
    postrook's Avatar
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    Jun 2012
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    You will not be able to stay home, brother
    You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out
    You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and
    Skip out for beer during commercials
    Because the revolution will not be televised

    The revolution will not be televised
    The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox
    In 4 parts without commercial interruptions
    The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon
    Blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John
    Mitchell, General Abrams and Spiro Agnew to eat
    Hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary
    The revolution will not be televised

    The revolution will not be brought to you by the
    Schaefer Award Theatre and will not star Natalie
    Wood and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia
    The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal
    The revolution will not get rid of the nubs
    The revolution will not make you look five pounds
    Thinner, because the revolution will not be televised, Brother

    There will be no pictures of you and Willie Mays
    Pushing that shopping cart down the block on the dead run
    Or trying to slide that color television into a stolen ambulance
    NBC will not be able predict the winner at 8:32
    Or report from 29 districts
    The revolution will not be televised

    There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
    Brothers in the instant replay
    There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
    Brothers in the instant replay
    There will be no pictures of Whitney Young being
    Run out of Harlem on a rail with a brand new process
    There will be no slow motion or still life of Roy
    Wilkins strolling through Watts in a Red, Black and
    Green liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving
    For just the right occasion

    Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies, and Hooterville
    Junction will no longer be so Goddamn relevant, and
    Women will not care if Dick finally gets down with
    Jane on Search for Tomorrow because Black people
    Will be in the street looking for a brighter day
    The revolution will not be televised

    There will be no highlights on the eleven o'clock
    News and no pictures of hairy armed women
    Liberationists and Jackie Onassis blowing her nose
    The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb
    Or Francis Scott Key, nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom
    Jones, Johnny Cash, or Englebert Humperdink, or the Rare Earth
    The revolution will not be televised

    The revolution will not be right back after a message
    About a white tornado, white lightning, or white people
    You will not have to worry about a Dove in your
    Bedroom, a tiger in your tank, or the giant in your toilet bowl
    The revolution will not go better with Coke
    The revolution will not fight the germs that may cause bad breath
    The revolution will put you in the driver's seat

    The revolution will not be televised, will not be televised
    Will not be televised, will not be televised
    The revolution will be no re-run brothers;
    The revolution will be live

    -Gil Scott-Heron

  21. #21
    Hoshigami Reputation: 435
    Kashis's Avatar
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    Apr 2007
    Plainfield, New Jersey
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    Be careful of what you say, tomorrow or today, for the words you now speak, may become the poison your enemies later seek; truth.

    "Rules do not exist to bind you, they exist so you may know your freedoms"

  22. #22
    Hoshigami Reputation: 435
    Kashis's Avatar
    Join Date
    Apr 2007
    Plainfield, New Jersey
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    I had it all laid out, the plan was perfect
    It didn't seem difficult, but I never attempted it
    Whenever I had a chance, I would just let it go
    I always had my greeting, but never could say hello

    Nothing obstructing, nothing preventing
    Everything ready, opportunity awaiting
    The moment arrived and upon preparing to act
    I realized that there was something I lacked

    My mind raced for a conclusion that wasn't even there
    My voice began to struggle as if it were searching for air
    I started reasoning with myself that this won't even work
    I stood mute and afraid and feeling like a complete jerk

    I thought about what could happen and what likely wouldn't
    I expected success although I sensed that I shouldn't
    Imagining an outcome based on a prediction
    Was just an excuse for abandoning my conviction

    Seeing myself waver and succumbing to my dread
    Lead me to avoid this conflict and instead
    Construct and believe in an alternate reality
    In which I could be someone who wasn't me

    Able to converse with relative ease
    To anyone available as much as I please
    I'd be witty, entertaining and astonishingly insightful
    Who's wonderful stories were extraordinary and delightful

    Our conversation complete, I'd wave and say goodbye
    But in reality, they leave without knowing I can even say hi
    So, alone I go home and in disappointment I sigh
    Not because of my failure, but because I never even try
    Be careful of what you say, tomorrow or today, for the words you now speak, may become the poison your enemies later seek; truth.

    "Rules do not exist to bind you, they exist so you may know your freedoms"

  23. #23


    Silence by Marianne Moore

    My father used to say,
    "Superior people never make long visits,
    have to be shown Longfellow's grave
    nor the glass flowers at Harvard.
    Self reliant like the cat --
    that takes its prey to privacy,
    the mouse's limp tail hanging like a shoelace from its mouth --
    they sometimes enjoy solitude,
    and can be robbed of speech
    by speech which has delighted them.
    The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence;
    not in silence, but restraint."
    Nor was he insincere in saying, "`Make my house your inn'."
    Inns are not residences.

    Lesson 1 by Julie Hill Alger

    At least I've learned this much:
    Life doesn't have to be
    all poetry and roses. Life
    can be bus rides, gritty sidewalks,
    electric bills, dishwashing,
    chapped lips, dull stubby pencils
    with the erasers chewed off,
    cheap radios played too loud,
    the rank smell of stale coffee
    yet still glow
    with the inner fire of an opal,
    still taste like honey.

    Sonogram by Paul Muldoon

    Only a few weeks ago, the sonogram of Jean's womb
    resembled nothing so much
    as a satellite map of Ireland:

    now the image
    is so well-defined we can make out not only a hand
    but a thumb;

    on the road to Spiddal, a woman hitching a ride;
    a gladiator in his net, passing judgement on the crowd.

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