Ridings for hounds.

[Dorsum Oppel]

And spare-oh's they be

If a sparrow was a finch, he wouldn't have so many spare-oh's to give, and thus his lamenting capabilities would be far of kilter, and a happy song bird he would be. But if you listen so tightly to his cries, as they echo across the great chasms and skies, the sighs and hymns of the spare-oh's are a lamenting song indeed.

A ballade to the back alley huss

Will I give as I die?
Blood and pinken flesh a babe is born,
I'm not even sure if I'm alive any more.
of a mother not quite virgin.
Will my child begin to cry,
Self birthing soon-dead harlot!
without a mother to adore?
A scorn in gods eyes.
Or will he just not realize,
Heavenly father forgive your daughters sins.
that his mother was a whore?

A song for The Sting

Lovely thistle! My wife, my embrace.
Technical formulae devises your sting,
How many hours have I spent in garden,
a thing of beauty and vile retribution,
stroking your petals just to feel your harsh kiss?
for the likes of men who domesticate you.

Darwin and Buck

Mellow crying blackgaurde pansy-toed milksop son of a wench thy child suckling on the teat of a lion to find your sick kicks while showing your hunger for seamstress blood a belligerent can popping snow driver in the land of club and fang you survive not for you are not a dog but a man and in the ferine wood where only the brutest strains of organism may prosper you democratic economic dick sucking on money yes your money and your material things for that ming vase has the only dick available for you to suck at life a morality long rotten spoiled in ever your own eyes long blind for in the land of club and fang you feel life nary a second with no nose the system closest to thy ignoratio memorium for a nose is the system not seen but felt in the land of claw and fang.

[Blood]

One word: Amazing.

[Dorsum Oppel]

One word: Amazing.

Much oblidged.

[georgiamay]

Wow. I don't really like one word posts, but that's all I can say.
Wow.
It's pretty amazing I have to say.

[Dorsum Oppel]

A whip cripple to reading my poetry:
Most of my poems have alternating lines. Try reading every other line, and then do so with the other set of every other line. Multi-perspective lenses, I do give you!

Mane mane skin the fox.

Hounds! Return to your primordial drums!
Brumal canis of wild wood and thy fang,
The beastly strain with your blood does run,
feel the warmth of the mans fire and feet,
long forgotten and seldom but almost seen,
Cross the threshold and gaurde thy earth!
Return to the wild.

[Dorsum Oppel]

E A T.
Beast beast, feeder of flesh,
contrast so starkly by eater of sun.
Amanita animata, feeder of death,
contrast so starkly by eater of life.

Drum skins yurt nomad.
Plow dog grain house.
Trade city river reap.
War train steam lord.
Boom.
Car smoke zap pill.

Do you share the toxic imagery drawn out by your tastebuds?
How many years in a row now have you been eating guccia and coach?
Say the hand stopped feeding, do you feed yourself?
Live by arrow, kill to cut meat and pelt. Be grateful of what you have,
but strive, strive, for better. Darwin your way.

[deadpie]

http://blogs.citypages.com/blotter/brilliant.jpg


Holy fuck. That new poem was amazing. And I totally love that last line - "Darwin your way". Perfect ending. It's also philosophical of a poem too, which gives you another thumbs up.

[Dorsum Oppel]

Taste that mutton!

We continue to bury our dead,
Helen, take your head out of the oven.
But will they ever grow?
Why can't you move your legs?
Will their heads burst for into flowers?
Won't you come out to play with out guns?
How many vines will spawn from toes of our sons,
Your mother and father are long gone, helen.
Or fruit will creep from the wombs of our daughters?
The fires ate their hands and feet too long ago.

Ashes to flowers, dust to rock.
Take your head out of the oven,
and your dead out of the ground.