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    dots Submission Name: Sex Staindots

    Author: Fantastic Freya
    Elite Ratio:    5.05 - 133/160/47
    Words: 324
    Class/Type: Misc/Misc
    Total Views: 965
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 2075


    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsSex Staindots

    No funk in poetry these days, no rhyme
    to spare the time, to shape the world in form
    or free, just prose, to watch as we die. Verse,
    if I could break your back and with these words
    rebuild that stanza lone, you'd feel your feet
    were dancing to some dark uncommon beat

    I met a poet once, said he was beat
    and smoky folk wrapped round him for his rhyme
    but gasoline encased his naked feet
    and lunch exploded softly on his form
    of non-conformist storage of the words
    that scattered like the scriptures INRI verse

    And in the streets you'll find the scraps of verse
    blown leftwards. While pedestrians will beat
    upon the cracks and crevices where words
    can't help but fall, the vestiges of rhyme
    will couple in the alleyways to form
    an easement for the stress upon your feet

    The tramping stamp of strictly metered feet
    sings jackboot threats to liberated verse
    where none may pass without the proper form.
    Reactionaries shout how they will beat
    the dictates of the strict and structured rhyme
    and never hear proscription in their words

    They are just air and scribbles, all these words
    that bring the outraged masses to their feet
    and where would protests be, if not for rhyme?
    No "hell no, we won't go", such clever verse
    is owed the witless who think they can beat
    the world into a boxed and labelled form

    They talk the loudest, those whose lips will form
    two trunkless legs to tower over words
    from better men. And time itself will beat
    that bitter drum that knocks us from our feet
    and leaves us kicking hopelessly at verse
    that argues still the right and wrong of rhyme

    And fractures form where once we set out feet
    in clay, while words from some infectious verse
    spray out the beat, in funky naked rhyme.

    Submitted on 2011-01-04 00:45:07     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      i don't even like rhyming poetry all that much..i feel form overtakes content in importance and often rhyme and meter feel forced..

    not so with your stuff...and even though i am mostly opposed to rhyme...i like your argument here..
    and must relent...in one aspect..

    form must be there in order for us to spring to anything else...sort of like dickinson used the hymnal form in much of her poetry , but violated the form..

    if we didn't have specific form we would have nothing to violate..

    and we wouldn't be able to form chaos in the streets with our words...

    go against the establishment ..so to speak.

    damn i like this poem...and so far all of your writing...

    if i did favorites on the site...you would fill them up, for sure.

    | Posted on 2011-03-13 00:00:00 | by jacoberin | [ Reply to This ]
      it's too late for critique and to be honest i'd have to look closely to see what type of meter you are using, and most likely then i would know it but not know how to name it.

    the meter is good, it's subtle so that the penny you are preaching to might not recognize the shine, ie

    someone who didn't recognize rhythms would not take it for a rhyme (and you can take that how you want)

    but really - i'm harking to your harking about prose.

    it's too late for critique on something this long.

    but i felt i'd like to make note of that one aspect and come back to this later.

    did you write the response? as in, is it yours? that's golden work, sublime.

    seriously, i could lose myself for hours in that in an instant. it reminds me of Dylan Thomas.

    you do good things for rhyme, and i think the thing i liked least, but appreciated best was how the last line in its rhythm sort of loses puff, it's somber and all, but metrically, when the form matches, and goes further, to serve (as) the meaning, that's the business. did you write it? i hope you wrote it.
    | Posted on 2011-01-05 00:00:00 | by Daniel Barlow | [ Reply to This ]
      There is no gold, just brightly painted tin
    and blinding light, with spectrums all contained:
    a million rainbows scared to look within
    while grey men think the world has been explained
    | Posted on 2011-01-04 00:00:00 | by Fantastic Freya | [ Reply to This ]
      but as the rhythmic tapping of our feet
    beats elegies into the senseless ground
    and softens every step, will paths of gold
    grow smooth as a single arc of sound?
    | Posted on 2011-01-04 00:00:00 | by rws | [ Reply to This ]

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