the boys i mean are not refined...its an opening line to a great e e cummings poem which I will post later. I used this line to write my latest bit of poetry. I hope you have as much fun reading it as I did writing it...little bit of self-excoriation never hurt anybody. Enjoy!!!


The poet I mean is not refined;
he sticks a feather in his shit
and hems and haws calls it wit.

With pointless rambles
and verse in shambles
and not much scheme to speak,
the words do wobble and topple and fall
creating laments of weak.

Should un-leaden pens upon paper fall
with no regard towards meaning's all,
he sits and smiles with a frown
'til's turned a word to up-side nwod.

When scheme doth fail
and imagery flail,
he inserts a letter,
such as with f(l/r)ail.

No primary message is ever concieved,
the poet is oft to willingly cede.
Lines are but words - arranged on a page;
misguided by passion and fashion and rage.

When all else fails
(or nothing starts),
bits and parts
of words form art?

The poet I mean is not refined;
just whines and dines and lacks a spine.

Random Original Poetry, courtesy of M(e/yself), and unoutFluences.