Ok, go.
---
Mark
The Workers Do Not Dream Of Renouncing Love
Inexplicably they cling to this final bastion of exploitation
--
Mark
--
Mark
While the dogs piss on there legs and dry hump there empty dreams.
and the fat cats whip them in endless bondage.
--
Paul (We won't die of devotion)
-------------------------------------------------------
Stop and Look
http://www.geocities.com/dreamst8me/
Well - that's the end of this little experiment, I'd say. TWICE in one
sentence the wrong word is used, and the entirety lacks anything but
sub-adolescent giggles.
dmh
Their severed hands make good paperweights for upper management
*sorry-
i always fuck up my THEIR/THERE's.
maybe we should start over.
i'm assuming this is the title:
ok, then
let's see what we have so far:
The Workers Do Not Dream Of Renouncing Love
Inexplicably they cling
to this final bastion of exploitation.
The dogs piss on their legs
and dry hump their empty dreams
while their severed hands make good
paperweights for upper management.
(does that work, so far?)
Oh yeah, that's great. Uh, what if we "tweaked" it just
a little. For instance, when you say...
The dogs piss on their legs and dry hump their empty
dreams, .......we use a couple o different words to say,
----
The Workers Do Not Dream of Renouncing Love
Inexplicably they cling to this final bastion of explotation
Even as their disillusionment is torn from them,
As the wild dog tears flesh free from the bone.
and then when you say....while their severed hands make
good paperweights for upper management...it could be
"interpreted" to read.....
But still, they cling to that missing part of themselves
As if perpetually anchored to an invisible eschelon
see, same thing, right? So, lets see....
----------------------
The Workers Do Not Dream of Renouncing Love
Inexplicably they cling to this final bastion of exploitation
Even as their disillusionment is torn from them
As the wild dog tears flesh free from the bone
But still they cling to that missing part of themselves
As if perpetually anchored to an invisible eschelon
Ok, go.
---
Mark
The Workers Do Not Dream of Renouncing Love
The workers do not dream
of renouncing love
inexplicably
they cling to this
final bastion of exploitation
while the dogs piss
on their legs and dry-hump
their empty dreams
and the fat cats
whip them in bondage
while their severed hands
make good paperweights
for upper management
even as their disillusionment
is torn from them as the wild dog
tears flesh free from the bone
still they cling to that
missing part of themselves
as if perpetually
anchored
to an invisible
echelon
haha-
great!
i think it's a strong beginning.
anyone else have something to add?
Gracefully they cling to their final slavery
A torn sheet hanging from a hotel window
As the management's dogs enter unbidden.
And if something is still missing
When the body is cataloged
No poor employee will speak up
About its return.
dmh
I'd say put Dale's ending on, and it's done.
Do you want the initial caps and punctuation? I think taking them out
matches the voice better; this is a young revolutionary who has
renounced bourgeois conventions like grammar.
They will not gauge themselves by their lost feet
The whorewolf rides off into the night alone
One man crawls
the narrow stairway
of the Candlelight Motel
to watch
from a window.
Rethinking
his infatuation
but inexplicably clinging
to this new bastion
of salty white nuns.
Downstairs
the desk clerk's cat
slithers through
the service entrance.
The vampirate
and a grinning wearywolf
pass below
on a murderbike
built for two
to the westbound bridge.
Jennifer at riverbend
watches gunboats
smacks her foot
on the bright red clay.
She gives good lyric
she wrote this poem
she's no bum
but she's not there
on the other side
of the greenish wall.
Through a three-inch-wall
he hears
bedsprings rattle
rustle of dry-hump,
some guy's mumbles.
Hears the fat blonde waitress
whip it in bondage
the sounds
lull him to sleep.
The hand of Uncle Sugarcure
still taking notes
as a new standard bearer
hands out trophies
to the winners.
His trillion dollar gash
flakes from the bone
as gravity tears
a pound of dust.
Clings to a picture book
the missing part of himself
as if perpetually
anchored
to his invisible erection.
At Lucky Seven Lounge
she tries
not to reveal herself
but she stubbornly clutches
her empty shoes.
Something
seems missing
in the broad daylight
when the details
are displayed.
All that remains are
her flat black hat
her oversized lantern
her broken laptop.
No poor boy on the street
can speak of her
or the island on the river.
Or about her return...
her resurrection.
-Will Dockery
--
"Shadowville Speedway Blues" and other songs:
http://www.myspace.com/willdockery
and another man
vomits on his shoes
his name is Dockery
what a putz
Well, maybe... but it can be a mistake to assume the speaker in the poem is
the writer.
= snip =
Your poetry makes Vogons whimper.