Too Much Fun

bibble was a spoon at six
pick up sticks and stocks,
stole nine yards of grampas cocks,

Grampas gotta loaf, ha ha
(clap, clap_
Grampas gotta loaf, ho,ho
(clap, clap_

Clap clap the audience
Snap, snap brawniest,
tawniest bitch I never did see,
bawdiest, tawdriest, hepburn/audriest
went home with me
silly me, really me,
and the sperm hit the egg and a tree-lee-lee

Break it down, give it to the town,
deal it to feeling, sippin’ darjeeling,
squirt it on the ceiling and leave it there.
Staple garbage to the ceiling like you just don’t care.
Staple garbage to the ceilingfan and call it modern art.
Watch the shit revolve a bit until it falls apart…
I’m the one, the one, the one!
Too much fun
I have a million deaths upon my breath
like a wild turkey shot
A million of my own deaths, billions to go,
which is how’ll take it so I can eat it under the bridge
in the wet dirt, quickly without chewing,
one billion zillion served. The grease smells like meat
making me smell like meat and something else…

…a suckie poet with a lap full of rancid pickle juice, disguised as special sauce? :stuck_out_tongue:

[size=75]–now don’t get all flustered and go postal on us…[/size]

You are lacking rhythm… and well, everything else too…

Looks like you guys got the poem. It’s entitled Too Much Fun for a reason. I’m poking fun at myself. I was exhausted from my shoot from the hip approach to posting and life, having Too Much Fun toying with Dunamis and others. My long posts are written in thirty seconds and boom they go out. This was written and posted in a minute, and it shows. It’s liberating to tap a creative node within your soul and let the pickled notions bleed on the keyboard for others to deal with. Thankyou for telling me I suck. I hungered for it. There are fifty ways I could have you telling me I’m brilliant. Problem is I’m really not. Solution: this poem. Thanks for playing.

I liked it. I don’t comment or know much about poetry…this one made me hungry for something I don’t know…maybe it was my dad reciting Jabberwocky to me while pushing me in my pram…

A

I like this poem.

There are only two places where the rhythm breaks of and I would humbly advise for you to re-word, otherwise I think it’s very good, and I enjoyed reading it multiple times. If I enjoy reading a poem multiple times that means it’s good in my mind, plus there are discoveries to be made here as well.

Here are the two parts I’d advise you to reword:

“bawdiest, tawdriest, hepburn/audriest” – I like the audrey hepburn – hey I just used her in a poem hmm… :stuck_out_tongue: heh, but the “bawdiest, tawdriest,” doesn’t flow or sound good, in my opinion.

You got abstract because you couldn’t find the metaphor for what you were trying to say, right? I think you should find the metaphor and incorporate it because, bro, un-poetic ending to a very poetic poem, IMO.

Here is what I see and liked: The poem is grandiosely ironic. It makes fun of modern art, and yet at the same time, is modern art. The poem cannot escape what it ridicules. I compare this poem to the artist who submits a toilet bowl upside down to the art establishment (to say fuck you to the art establishment) – the establishment, takes the bowl and puts it in the museum. Anti-art has become art. That’s why I like this piece: because it’s bold, and because it fails to do what it sets out to do.

Well done Gamer, keep em coming.

Thanks. I will make no changes to it. Bawdiest and tawdriest is a self-touting of the kind of lyric I spit and the gratuitous rhyme points to the heavy-handed contrivance I tend to leak in my peacockian way. THe poem ends on an ambiguous note as you don’t know what to make of the indulgent, fast-food cloying nonsense dribbling down your chin, I sound a bit this and a bit what? It’s not clear nor is it intended to be. The ultimate “out.” Now go eat your creamcheese bagel and take a nap. Oh, I see I’ve divulged my alterego. Damn.

There is a personality type,
That comes to believe its own hype,
Whatever it spews,
expects good news,
But with it my bum I won’t wipe…

No problem.

Be careful Tab. You’re dangerously close to having Too Much Fun with that one. And others.

Gamer, have you forgotten? The Author is dead.

P.S.

slows me down actually. “How I’ll” – i think, would be better. Remember, the poem isn’t yours, it stands for itself – if you wrote this in 30 seconds then in my mind, that is true poetry! I like to think that the artist is simply the medium, not the creator. However, the poet, after the original sentiment is on the page, must go back and be a bit critical of his work, tweaking it just a little here and there, so that, he helps the reader gain the intended affect (according to Poe anyway – and I think it’s unquestionable that Poe knew what he was talking about).

I can’t help myself - the urge to limmerick sometimes simply overwhelms any sense of self-preservation… :laughing:

Now Marge is into metamorphosis,
And achieving a state of guh-nosis,
Gee’s reflection she is,
But like Nietzche’s abyss,
She stares back up from between her toesies…

…I’ve seen a couple already – but, I was not paid to tell you! :stuck_out_tongue:

Excellent, I like this line. Its saying , break it down as in, really break that thing down, and instead of giving it to a cause which is not worthwhile, give it to the town. Which is better.
Yep, very good.