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She Tells Her Love While Half Asleep - Robert Graves

(for the romantic in all of us)

She tells her love while half asleep,
In the dark hours,
With half words whispered low;
As earth stirs in her winter sleep
And puts out grass and flowers
Despite the snow,
Despite the falling snow.
 
"I will give u liberty, but first give me ure spirit,
This I must confiscate because the evil fear it."
I too would be afraid of passion governed by reason
An open mind to trying times when corruption is in
season
The promise that they claim
2 be completely true
is hyprocrisy at its finest
A trick 2 silence u
never will I believe a promise
from the masters of the Art
Trickery does not succeed
with those with Honest Hearst

~The Promise~
Tupac Shakur
 
- Morrison - who else?
Click to expand...

Here's something by Michael McClure, who was a friend of Jim Morrison, and is usually associated with the Beat poets. In fact it's said that he was a significant influence on Morrison as a poet and lyricist, and that he encouraged Morrison to publish his poetry.

This is pretty crazy stuff, I think you'll agree(!):

99 THESES
1. MAN IS A CARNIVORE EXPERIENCING HIMSELF.
2. MAN IS A MAMMAL.
3. THE UNIVERSE IS THE MESSIAH.
4. THE CREATURE IS ONE BEING.
5. ONE BEING IS POLYTHEISM.
6. THE 27 SENSES ARE EXTRUSIONS OF MESSIAH.
7. THE SENSES ARE GODS AND GODDESSES.
8. THE MAMMAL & THE STAR ARE EQUAL.
9. THE STARS ARE A GAS.
10. THE GALAXIES ARE A LIQUID.
11. ALL LIFE IS A MEAT SCULPTURE FREED OF TIME, SPACE & DIMENSION.
12. THIS SOCIETY IS A CAGE FOR THE MAMMAL.
13. ALL CREATURES OF WING, FIN, FUR, TENTACLE, PROTOPLASM -- ARE EQUAL.
14. THE PANDA IS A PEACOCK.
15. MAN IS A PANDA.
16. THE SALMON IS A MAN.
17. THE WOLF SINGS.
18. CARBON, HYDROGEN, NITROGEN, OXYGEN, SULFUR.
19. THE STAR IS A SUN.
20. CHILDREN ARE FREE.
21. THE BODY IS A CHILD.
22. THEISM REJECTS THE MESSIAH.
23. THE PHYSIOLOGICAL BODY IS PURE SPIRIT.
24. EACH SELF IS MANY SELVES.
25. THE INVISIBLE EXTENSIONS OUTWARD ARE AS COMPLEX AS THE VISIBLE EXTENSIONS INWARD.
26. THE SENSORIUM, MEMORIES, AND GENES -- ARE CONSTELLATIONS.
27. ALL CONSTELLATIONS ARE ONE CONSTELLATION.
28. LIFE SURGES.
29. EXTINCTION IS AN APPEARANCE.
30. THE SNOW LEOPARD IS A WORM ELF.
31. EARTH IS A SNOW LEOPARD.
32. LIFE IS TOPOLOGICAL COMPLEXITY.
33. WEALTH IS ENERGY.
34. ELECTRONICS DEVOLVE FROM THIS STAR.
35. THERE IS NOT INTELLIGENCE BUT INTELLIGENCES.
36. CRUELTY, TORTURE, SELFISHNESS, VANITY ARE BORING.
37. EACH MAMMAL DESERVES.
38. THE SLOTH AND THE EAGLE ARE EQUAL -- MEN ARE EQUAL IN THE SAME WAY.
39. THERE ARE, AND ARE NOT, MOLECULES AND ATOMS.
40. ONLY THE SELVES CAN DOMESTICATE THE SELF-DOMESTICATED.
41. MAN AND THE DOG ARE SELF-DOMESTICATED.
42. MEN FEED WILD MUSTANGS TO DOGS, AND WHALES TO CATS.
43. THE SEA URCHIN IS A GREAT PHILOSOPHER.
44. PLATO EQUALS CHARLIE CHAPLIN -- JESUS IS ANACREON.
45. MONEY IS FUNNY.
46. THE DOLLAR IS A COLLAR.
47. CLOVER IS A CREATURE.
48. THERE IS ENOUGH WATER FOR ALL WHO SHOULD BE.
49. EVERYTHING IS NATURAL.
50. REASON IS BEAUTY.
51. MEAT IS THOUGHT.
52. THE GREEKS WERE THE LAST TO DEIFY THE SENSES.
53. MONOTONY IS MADNESS.
54. THE FRONTIER IS OUTSIDE.
55. THE FRONTIER IS INSIDE.
56. LIFE BEGINS WITH COILING-MOLECULES & NEBULAE.
57. RELIGION, MATERIALISM, POLITICS, PROGRESS, TECHNOLOGY-ARE EVANGELISMS.
58. EVANGELISMS ARE PROLIFERATIONS OF MONOTONY.
59. REVOLUTION IS SENTIMENT.
60. REVOLT IS BIOLOGICAL.
61. THE LIGHT ON YOUR FINGERTIPS IS STARLIGHT.
62. PROPORTION AS MEASUREMENT IS FALSITY.
63. THE BLACK MAN IS NOT THE PINK MAN OR THE YELLOW -- THEY ARE MAMMALS.
64. DREAD THE POLITICO AND PREACHER WHO CAN DELINEATE A MESSIAH.
65. NATIONS ARE FALSE DIVISIONS OF CONTINENTS.
66. CITIES ARE SWIRLS OF POPULATION.
67. IT IS NATURAL TO DROWN IN CITIES -- IT IS NATURAL TO SWIM IN WAVES.
68. THERE IS ONE LANGUAGE -- GESTURE, VOICE AND VIBRATION OF BODY.
69. YOUTH IS CLUBBED WHEN IT RISES OR OPENS.
70. THE BODY IS ELF LAND.
71. THE CHILD IS A BEAST OF BURDEN -- HE IS USED FOR WAR.
72. LIFE IS NOT REST BUT ACTION.
73. LIGHT AND DARKNESS ARE ARBITRARY DIVISIONS.
74. THE FIST IS REAL -- THE MACHINE GUN, BOMB, NAPALM, ARE FANTASIES OF COMMUNICATION.
75. PROPAGANDA IS NARCOSIS.
76. POPULATION IS AN ADDICTION.
77. LOVE CAN ONLY BE MADE, OR INVENTED, WITH MEAT.
78. PRISONS AND COURTROOMS ARE MONOTONY.
79. WAR IS ONE COLOR.
80. THE PUSSY WILLOW, THE REDWOOD, THE BUTTERFLY -- ARE BLOSSOMS.
81. MADNESS IS TEMPORARY AND NATURAL.
82. WHERE THE BODY IS -- THERE ARE ALL THINGS.
83. SOUL IS BORING -- SPIRIT FLIES.
84. THE CRICKET IS A WARRIOR AND A GOD OF MUSIC.
85. THE FALCON IS A CLOSE AND TEMPORARY ACQUAINTANCE.
86. ANY SEXUAL GROUP IS APPARENTLY NATURAL.
87. CLEANLINESS IS UNDEFINABLE AND AS NATURAL AS FILTH.
88. DRUGS ARE BRIEF ALCHEMY.
89. MORALE IS VIGOR.
90. THE YOUNG CREATURE IS AGILE.
91. THE OLDER CREATURE IS STRONG.
92. WISDOM, MEMORY, IMAGINATION, ARE SENSORY -- CONSTELLATIONS OF INTELLECTIVE MEAT.
93. MODERATION DERIVES FROM MULTIPLICITY OF EXPERIENCE.
94. NOW SUCKS.
95. PAST, PRESENT, FUTURE AND DIMENSIONS ARE A FIELD FOR BALANCE.
96. LUCK IS A CREATION OF THE MEAT.
97. LUCK AND MEAT ARE DIVINE.
98. THE EYE AND TONGUE ARE A FIELD OF CREATURES.
99. MEAT' IS A MOVING CAVE IN THE SOLID AIR.​
-Paris 1970​
 
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César Vallejo: Black Stone on Top of a White Stone

(translated by Thomas Merton)

I shall die in Paris, in a rainstorm,
On a day I already remember.
I shall die in Paris-- it does not bother me--
Doubtless on a Thursday, like today, in autumn.

It shall be a Thursday, because today, Thursday
As I put down these lines, I have set my shoulders
To the evil. Never like today have I turned,
And headed my whole journey to the ways where I am alone.

César Vallejo is dead. They struck him,
All of them, though he did nothing to them,
They hit him hard with a stick and hard also
With the end of a rope. Witnesses are: the Thursdays,
The shoulder bones, the loneliness, the rain, and the roads...
 
Very Dark

I once knew a nigga whose real name was William
his primary concern, was making a million
being the illest hustler, that the world ever seen
he used to fuck moviestars and sniff coke in his dreams
a corrupted young mind, at the age of thirteen
nigga never had a father and his mom was a feen
she put the pipe down, but forever yeah she was sober
her sons heart simultaneously grew colder
he started hanging out selling bags in the projects
checking the young chicks, looking for hit and run prospects
he was fascinated by material objects
but he understood money never bought respect
he build a reputation cause he could hustle and steal
but got locked once it didn't hesitate to squeal

So criminals he chilled with didn't think he was real
you see me and niggaz like this have never been equal
I dont project my insurecurity's at other people
he feeded for props like addicts with pipes and needles
so he felt he had to prove to everyone he was evil
a fever minded young man with infinite potetial
the product of a ghetto breed capatalistic mental
coincidentally dropped out of school to sell weed
dancing with the devil, smoked until his eyes would bleed
but he was sick of selling trees and gave in to his greed

Everyone trying to be trife never face the consequences
you propably only did a month for minor offences
ask a nigga doing life if he had another chance
but then again there's always the wicked at new and advanced
dance forever with the devil on a code cell block
but thats what happens when you rape, murder and sell rock
devils used to be gods, angels that fell from the top
there's no diversity because we're burning in the melting pot


So Billy started robbing niggaz, anything he could do
he'd get his respect back, in the eyes of his crew
starting fights over little shit, up on the block
stepped up to selling mothers and brothers the crack rock
working overtime for making money for the crack spot
hit the jackpot and wanted to move up to cocaine
for filling the scarface fantasy stuck in his brain
tired of the block niggaz treating him the same
he wanted to be major like the cut throats and the thugs
but when he tried to step to 'em, niggaz showed him no love
they told him any motherfucking coward can sell drugs
any bitch nigga with a gun, can bust slugs
any nigga with a red shirt can front like a blood
even Puffy smoked the motherfucker up in a club
but only a real thug can stab someone till they die
standing in front of them, starring straight into their eyes
Billy realized that these men were well guarded
and they wanted to test him, before business started
suggested raping a bitch to prove he was cold hearted
so now he had a choice between going back to his life
or making money with made men, up in the cife
his dreams about cars and ice, made him agree
a hardcore nigga is all he ever wanted to be
and so he met them friday night at a quarter to three


They drove around the projects slow while it was raining
smoking blunts, drinking and joking for entertainment
untill they saw a woman on the street walking alone
three in the morning, coming back from work, on her way home
and so they quietly got out the car and followed her
walking through the projects, the darkness swallowed her
they wrapped her shirt around her head and knocked her onto the floor
this is it kid now you got your chance to be raw
so Billy oaked her up and grapped the chick by the hair
and dragged her into a lobby that had nobody there
she struggled hard but they forced her to go up the stairs
they got to the roof and then held her down on the ground
screaming shut the fuck up and stop moving around
the shirt covered her face, but she screamed the clouts
so Billy stomped on the bitch, until he broken her jaw
the dirty bastards knew exactly what they were doing
they kicked her until they cracked her ribs and she stopped moving
blood leaking through the cloth, she cried silently
and then they all proceeded to rape her violently

Billy was meant to go first, but each of them took a turn
ripping her up, and choking her until her throat burned
a broken jaw mumbled for god but they weren't concerned
when they were done and she was lying bloody, broken and broos
one of them niggaz pulled out a brand new twenty-two
they told him that she was a witness of what she'd gone through
and if he killed her he was guaranteed a spot in the crew
he thought about it for a minute, she was practicly dead
and so he leaned over and put the gun right to her head


Right before he pulled the trigger, and ended her life
he thought about the cold pain with the platinum and ice
and he felt strong standing along with his new brothers
cocked the gat to her head, and pulled back the shirt cover
but what he saw made him start the cringine studder
cuz he was starring into the eyes of his own mother
she looked back at him and cried, cause he had forsaken her
she cried more painfully, than when they were raping her
his whole world stopped, he couldn't even contiplate
his corruption had succesfully changed his fate
and he remembered how his mom used to come home late
working hard for nothing, cause now what was he worth
he turned away from the woman that had once given him birth
and crying out to the sky cause he was lonely and scared
but only the devil responded, cause god wasn't there
and right then he knew what it was to be empty and cold
and so he jumped off the roof and died with no soul

They say death take you to a better place but I doubt it
after that they killed his mother, and never spoke about it
and listen cause the story that I'm telling is true
cuz I was there with Billy Jacobs and I raped his mom to
and now the devil follows me everywhere that I go
infact I'm sure he's standing among one of you at my shows
and every street cypher listening to little thugs flowe
he could be standing right next to you, and you wouldn't know
the devil grows inside the hearts of the selvish and wicked
white, brown, yellow and black colored is not restricted
you have a self destructive destiny when your inflicted
and you'll be one of gods children and fell from the top
there's no diversity because we're burning in the melting pot
so when the devil wants to dance with you, you better say never
because the dance with the devil might last you forever

- Felipe Coronel ('Immortal Technique')

PEACE
UnS
:)
 
Theodore Roethke - The Waking

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me, so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.
 
(Wordy) said:
This is pretty crazy stuff, I think you'll agree(!)
Click to expand...
OH. MY. GOD. 8o

There is some damn good stuff in here! Really eye opening.

I've mentioned this one before, it's Sunflower Sutra by Allen Ginsberg. I'd read poetry before, but this was the first time I heard poetry, an old recording on some radio station in my mother's house when I was lost. It moved me, and still does.

I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and
sat down under the huge shade of a Southern
Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the
box house hills and cry.
Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron
pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts
of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed,
surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of
machinery.
The oily water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun
sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that
stream, no hermit in those mounts, just ourselves
rheumy-eyed and hungover like old bums
on the riverbank, tired and wily.
Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray
shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting
dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust--
--I rushed up enchanted--it was my first sunflower,
memories of Blake--my visions--Harlem
and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes
Greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black
treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the
poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel
knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck
and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the
past--
and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset,
crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog
and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye--
corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like
a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face,
soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays
obliterated on its hairy head like a dried
wire spiderweb,
leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures
from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster
fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear,
Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O
my soul, I loved you then!
The grime was no man's grime but death and human
locomotives,
all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad
skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black
mis'ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance
of artificial worse-than-dirt--industrial--
modern--all that civilization spotting your
crazy golden crown--
and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless
eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the
home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar
bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards
of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely
tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what
more could I name, the smoked ashes of some
cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the
milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs
& sphincters of dynamos--all these
entangled in your mummied roots--and you there
standing before me in the sunset, all your glory
in your form!
A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent
lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye
to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited
grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden
monthly breeze!
How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your
grime, while you cursed the heavens of the
railroad and your flower soul?
Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a
flower? when did you look at your skin and
decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive?
the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and
shade of a once powerful mad American locomotive?
You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a
sunflower!
And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me
not!
So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck
it at my side like a scepter,
and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack's soul
too, and anyone who'll listen,
--We're not our skin of grime, we're not our dread
bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we're all
beautiful golden sunflowers inside, we're blessed
by our own seed & golden hairy naked
accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black
formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our
eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive
riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening
sitdown vision.
 
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I've mentioned this one before, it's Sunflower Sutra by Allen Ginsberg. I'd read poetry before, but this was the first time I heard poetry, an old recording on some radio station in my mother's house when I was lost. It moved me, and still does.
Click to expand...

"Hey man, did that poem just move?"

"Nah dude, it's fuckin' dead as my bedhead!"

"Man, I swear, it moved!"

"You must be imagining shit, dude!"
 
femmme fatal said:
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.


try reading it aloud... it's nuts :)

aj the femme
Click to expand...


I always find myself singing this in the manner of the Cheshire Cat from the 1951 Disney animated version of Alice In Wonderland :D If you haven't seen it, do.

cheshirecat.jpg
 
I used to know this woman who had the most
beautiful tattooes on the top sides of both of her hands
she was forty three years old and as far as I know had
never yet been with a man
its not that she wasn't attractive
she was beatiful
but its the way that she interacted she was aggresively passive
to the point where shewould of intimidated any myth
that ever tryed to cacth it
on the right hand she had a tattooe of a nude girl
she claimed it is what God resembled
but on the left she had a mirrored image of the same female
and this one she explained looked like the devil
I remember once watching her touch her own breast
show the tattooes smiled as they
stared down her stomach
as if anticipating when
they'de be alive and caressed
sweet flower that they
both seemed ta hung with
now maybe I was high but it felt so right
heaven and hell both take till this womans warm
it didn't make sense how she could-commence
touching herself with me wide awake in thesame room
but if I've learned anything in my years I learned I no longer believe in surprise
but what happened next damn near stold my tears
the tattooes came alive right in front of my eyes
they both slowly stood up and climbed off her hands
and showed me why she never took some time with a man
they climbed deep inside of this woman's garden
she closed her eyes and she gently bit her bottom lip
I stepped I left and I don't regret leaving
and I'd never forget all the things I saw that evening
a glimpse of religion
a piece of coming closer
to understanding more about what intrigues me most
I didn't get turned on I just got turned
I wasn't as aroused as I was concerned
for each one of em I've hurt
and every time I think burned
I've got a lot to teach but even more to learn
so now I keep my eyes open hoping to take in all I can
about women taking in all she can
and for as long as I breath I'de stay receting my memory
for that woman with the tattooed hands
There's good an evil in each individual find
dentifies needs and feeds I desire
as long as we keep our spirit inspired

she can bite her bottom lip all
she wants
 
It's a song by Atmosphere.

(Thanks, Google)

Please folks, if posting other people's work, you have to credit the creator! Cheers... :)
 
Amiri Baraka - Notes For a Speech

African blues
does not know me. Their steps, in sands
of their own
land. A country
in black & white, newspapers
blown down pavements
of the world. Does
not feel
what I am.

Strength

in the dream, an oblique
suckling of nerve, the wind
throws up sand, eyes
are something locked in
hate, of hate, of hate, to
walk abroad, they conduct
their deaths apart
from my own. Those
heads, I call
my "people."

(And who are they. People. To concern

myself, ugly man. Who
you, to concern
the white flat stomachs
of maidens, inside houses
dying. Black. Peeled moon
light on my fingers
move under
her clothes. Where
is her husband. Black
words throw up sand
to eyes, fingers of
their private dead. Whose
soul, eyes, in sand. My color
is not theirs. Lighter, white man
talk. They shy away. My own
dead souls, my, so called
people. Africa
is a foreign place. You are
as any other sad man here
american.
 
Emma Lew - Prey

I was daydreaming about wiping out the whole school
I was rehearsing and perfecting the ‘gentle giant’ approach
Rebellious and defiant, had no ambition
Death is a beginning, it’s beautiful

I swore I never shot at a windowless wall
I was calm and denied, and was allowed to drive away
And killed a young bride, inconclusively
It’s sad, but I don’t live there any more

Not like you’d expect - real dark, red blood
Humid in the city known for its beer
I was wrestling with a list, perhaps posing as a cop
And I wrapped my fingers around your throat. Did you panic?

I’m not an expert, I don’t know the terminology
They were looking for a guy who was ghoulish or foamed
It’s a slow road with a lot of curves
Maybe I should have toyed with her more
 
"I'm a modern man, a man for the millennium, digital and smoke-free, a diversified multi-cultural post-modern deconstructionist, politically, anatomically, and ecologically incorrect. I've been uplinked and downloaded, I've been inputted and outsourced, I know the upside of downsizing, I know the downside of upgrading. I'm a high-tech lowlife, a cutting edge state-of-the-art bi-coastal multitasker, and I can give you a gigabyte in a nanosecond. I'm new wave, but I'm old school, and my inner child is outward bound. I'm a hot-wired, heat-seeking, warm-hearted cool customer, voice-activated and biodegradable. I interface with my database, and my database is in cyberspace, so I'm interactive, I'm hyperactive, and from time to time, I'm radioactive. "

"Behind the 8-ball, ahead of the curve, riding the wave, dodging the bullet, pushing the envelope. I'm on point, on task, on message, and off drugs. I got no need for coke and speed. I have no urge to binge and purge. I'm in the moment, on the edge, over the top, but under the radar. A high-concept, low-profile, medium-range ballistics missionary. A street-wise smart bomb, a top-gun bottom-feeder. I wear power ties, I tell power lies, I take power naps, I run victory laps. I'm a totally ongoing bigfoot slamdunk rainmaker with a proactive outreach. A raging workaholic, a working rageaholic, out of rehab and in denial. I got a personal trainer, a personal shopper, a personal assistant, and a personal agenda. You can't shut me up, you can't dumb me down, 'cause I'm tireless, and I'm wireless. I'm an alphamale on beta blockers. I'm a non-believer and an overachiever, laid back, but fashion forward, up front, down home, low rent, high maintenance; super size, long lasting, high definition, fast acting, oven ready, and built to last. I'm a hands-on, footloose, kneejerk headcase, prematurely post-traumatic, and I have a love child who sends me hate mail. But I'm feeling, I'm caring, I'm healing, I'm sharing, a supportive, bonding, nurturing, primary caregiver. My output is down, but my income is up. I take a short position on the long bond, and my revenue stream has its own cash flow. I read junk mail, I eat junk food, I buy junk bonds, I watch trash sports. I'm gender specific, capital intensive, user friendly, and lactose intolerant. I like rough sex, I like tough love, I use the F-word in my e-mails, and the software on my hard drive is hardcore, no soft porn. I bought a microwave at a minimall, I bought a minivan at a megastore, I eat fast food in the slow lane. I'm tollfree, bite size, ready to wear, and I come in all sizes. A fully equipped, factory authorized, hospital tested, clinically proven, scientifically formulated medical miracle. I've been prewashed, precooked, preheated, prescreened, preapproved, prepackeged, postdated, freeze dried, double wrapped, vacuum packed, and I have an unlimited broadband capacity. I'm a rude dude, but I'm the real deal, lean and mean, cocked, locked, and ready to rock; rough, tough, and hard to bluff. I take it slow, I go with the flow, I ride with the tide, I got glide in my stride. Drivin' and movin', sailin' and spinnin', jivin' and groovin', wailin' and winnin'. I don't snooze, so I don't lose. I keep the pedal to the metal and the rubber on the road. I party hardy, and lunch time is crunch time. I'm hangin' in, there ain't no doubt, and I'm hangin' tough, over and out."
- George Carlin: Life is Worth Losing
 
Some say the world will end in fire.
Some say the world will end in ice.
I say either will suffice.

Robert Frost

also,
"The Road Less Traveled"
"Acquainted with the Night"
"Good Fences Make Good Neighbors"
"Stopping By the Woods on a Snowy Evening"

'The road to Heaven is not paved at all.'--anon.

I like "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe, but caution, his works are dark. His rhythm, rhyme, meter, and diction afford a stellar, musical cadence at times.

I like the works of Flannery O'Connor, a Southern Gothic writer (to the extreme). Her most gut wrenching, emotion evoking short story has been for me the one about the little girl getting into an argument with her father (or maybe it was her grandfather) over 'selling out' family property to commercial interests. Another good story of hers involves a door to door country bible salesman.

"Everything that Rises Must Converge"
"Good Country People"
"A Good Man Is Hard to Find"
"Wise Blood"
"And the Last Shall Be First"

The plays are Tennessee Williams are unbelievably good and unfortunately unbelievably tragic.

One of the best poems ever includes Rudyard Kipling's "If."
 
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Gig Ryan: In the Purple Bar

She spreads her pale legs
out across the table
and the beer
while he, the last car accident
red and tight across his eyes,
sucks her off, ungracefully.
But is she happy?

The hotel continues,
those expensive drinks. You were late.

He’s playing Billie Holiday
unshaven, but careful.
Let’s get things straight.
He buys you a cheap gin
and you want / want / want

How resilient you are.

She kisses the man, his mouth smells
of another woman’s cunt.
But nothing gets to you.

How well we cope.
 
My favorite poem...Wallace Stevens's "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird"

I love the way he's able to make his prose extremely clear and powerful with as few words as possible. He can be a difficult poet, but I highly recommend his work.

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
Wallace Stevens

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.

II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.

III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.

VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.

VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?

VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.

IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.

X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.

XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.

XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.

XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.

link:
http://www.writing.upenn.edu/~afilreis/88/stevens-13ways.html
 
Yeah, great choice - that's one of my favourite poems. And it's been much imitated and parodied. Kevin Brophy (a Melbourne poet) wrote a parody called Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Beer Bottle.

Stevens is a pretty difficult poet, but such an expansive thinker that I think there's always something for everyone in his work.
 
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