Conference back40::soapbox

from the book SLUGS by David Greenburg:

    Swallow a Slug by its tail or its snout
    Feel it slide down, feel it climb out.
    Nibble on its feetsies, nibble on its giblets
    Nibble on its bellybutton, nibble on its riblets.
    Breakfast?  Slug juice.  Slug soup's great for lunch.
    Fry 'em like potatoes, love the way they crunch!
    Perch one on a doorknob or on a toilet seat.
    Sizzle them on light bulbs, squash them with your feet.
    They're excellent as bookmarks, for polishing antiques.
    They're comfortable as earplugs & great for patching leaks.

    <------
    
    ......... gagagagag.... FFOOOORRRRDDD...... agagagagagaga.....
    BBBUUIICCCK.....
    
    :-)
    Dan
    

Look at those hors d'oeuvres,
Ain't they neat?
Little piece of cheese,
Little piece of meat.

    			   THE RAVIN - By ME!!!
    
    	Once upon a midnight dreary while I ponder weak and weary
    	Over a many quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore.
    	Suddenly I heard a choking as if someone near to croaking
    	then I saw the ravin poking round the edge of my front door.
    
    	Where have you been..I asked the ravin as he staggered through
    	my door?  Quote the ravin on the shore.
    
    	I could see his coat was icky every feather gooey sticky
    	from some tankers oil slick he fell into beyond the shore.
    	Also there was no mistaken pesticides he'd been intaking
    	Causing him to lie there shaking as he threw up on my floor.
    
    	Are you ill..I asked the ravin as he threw up on my floor?
    	Quote the ravin at deaths door.
    
    	As I saw the end was nearing suddenly I started fearing 
    	ravins might be disappearing like the doo doo bird before.
    
    	Right on Mac he said exclaiming though I'm really not complaining  
    	for I'm the last one who's remaining of those flocks killed by the
    	score!
    
    	NO I shrieked there must be others left of those killed by the
        score!!!!
    
    	Croaked the ravin nevermore!

The dogs of war awake.  The night
is shattered by the thunder of
their barking, booming cry, athirst
for drink, the blood of dying men
and dead.  The lightning of their eyes
illumines stroboscopic scenes
of carnage, men flung to the sky
to fall in bits and pieces for
the satisfaction of their greed
whose passions lightly squander life,
the life of others, ragged dolls
strewn red and lifeless on the sand.

The dogs descend, and vultures, too,
their prey the lands they tread upon
as one advances, one retreats
in squabbles over bloody bones.
A line drawn in the sand is scuffed,
positions taken, lost, retaken,
only life their trifling price.
The irony of war hangs thick,
that they whose sabres rattle loud
should rule the land while they
who bought it lie interred beneath,
a generation blown to hell.

Ah!  The poor doo doo bird!!

    
    
    bri, i think yours should go in here to be saved forever!!!!!
    
    

.6

Nice light summer reading...

    
    ravEn.  ravEn!

    
    No, he's RAVIN'!
    
    Absolutely ravin'.
    

Summer for prose and lemons, for nakedness and languor,
for the eternal idleness of the imagined return,
for the rare flutes and bare feet, and the August bedroom
of tangled sheets and the Sunday salt, ah violin!

When I press summer dusks together, it is
a month of street accordions and sprinklers
laying the dust, small shadows running from me.


"Bleecker Street, Summer"
Derek Walcott

    Raq, I would but I dunno how to drag them here from there.

    
    Come live with me and be my love,
    And we will all the pleasures prove
    That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
    Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
    
    And we will sit upon the rocks,
    Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
    By shallow rivers to whose falls
    Melodious birds sing madrigals.
    
    And I will make thee beds of roses
    And a thousand fragrant posies,
    A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
    Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
    
    A gown made of the finest wool
    Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
    Fair lined slippers for the cold,
    With buckles of the purest gold;
    
    A belt of straw and ivy buds,
    With coral clasps and amber studs;
    And if these pleasures may thee move,
    Come live with me, and be my love.
    
    The shepherds' swains shall dance and sing
    For thy delight each May morning;
    If these delights thy mind may move,
    Then live with me and be my love.
    
            -Christopher Marlowe
    
                                

    
    
    	Beat up your girl friend,
    	Tie her to the bed,
    	shag her,shag her,shag her,
    	Shag her Till she's dead.
    
    Bongo Yeats.

    RE: .15
    
    
    And when she's dead, but not forgotten,
    You'll dig her up and love her rotten?
    
    
    
    Terrie
    

    
    
    	Here's a classic from my teenage days,
    
    	
    
    
    
    	Doggy doo on my shoe,
    
    	Yuck,yuck,yuck,yuck,yuck,yuck  Poo.
    
    Bongo.

Grab that creep by the wood,
Twist it like you know you should,
Twist it hard, that dirty lout,
Twist it till his eyes pop out.

================================================================================
Note 12.5194                  Things to Hate Today                  5194 of 5202
CONSLT::MCBRIDE "Reformatted to fit your screen"     23 lines  13-JUN-1995 15:31
                          -< Okay, I warned ya' :-) >-
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
    	The Ode to Raquel 
    
    	street was a bit narrow...cars on either side...
    	This bimbo on my bumper, I really can't abide. 
    	I sneer and spit and froth and bark
    	All I wanna do is park! 
    	With blinker blinking and brake lights on, 
    	I wave her past, C'mon move on!
    	She stares and honks and even nudging
    	But here I sit, no sir, no budging!
    	How crass!  How Rude!  How truly awful!
    	That parking space was really lawful!
    	I finally give, a look of scorn
    	And as I leave, I honk my horn
    	The birds are flipped, the words are uttered.
    	About her family, things I muttered!	
    	My car is finally parked, though longer it did take.
    	I'm really really mad, that "woman" is a snake. 
    	I'm here and at my desk, my wounds they have been licked.
    	It's a really awful way, to start the day off ticked.   
    		
    		
    	Brian  :-)

    
    
                       Roses are red...
    
                       Violets are blue....
    
                       I'm a schiziod...
    
    
    
                       And so am I!!!.....
    

    
    
                       Get oot ma face ya stinkin pig
                       or i will dump you on an oil rig
                       with big men who think their bears
                       they hammer yer whang and pull oot yer hairs...
    
                                               Lord Byron...
                                                   

    The wombat lives across the seas
    Among the far antipodes.
    Its diet may consist of nuts and berries
    Or then again, of missionaries.
    Either way, I would not like to engage the wombat
    In any form of mortal combat.
    
                  -- Ogden Nash

    Bunny Fun
    
    Bunny booms or bunny busts 
    Have deeper roots than bunny lusts.
    When dark spots obscure the sun,
    The clock runs out on bunny fun
    
    
    (Forgot who wrote it, but it was some bunny expert from some university
    or other.)
    
    

    If at first you don't succeed,
    Pull your foreskin over yer heid
    An' whistle through the hole.
    
    

  Oh Mars
  bringer of war
  I can hear your drums a-tapping.

  Oh Mars
  bringer of war
  I can hear your drums a-tapping.

  I cover my ears and eyes with trembling hands.
  I cannot hear the lies of soft-spoken fortune tellers.
  I can hear your soldiers' drums a-tapping.
  
  A-tapping.
    Tatterapping.
  A-tapping.
    Tatterapping.
    
  At their steady beat, I can hear your soldiers' drums a-tapping.
  
  And when I have both feet firmly pressed to the floor
  and when I fill my lungs with silent air and hold it in
  and cover my ears and eyes with trembling hands...
  
  I can feel the ground a-moving.
  
  I can feel your soldiers moving, though slightly
  swaying
  from side to side
  from side to side
  
  Swaying,
    slightly.
  Swaying,
    slightly moving the ground.

  Oh Mars
  bringer of war
  I can hear your drums a-tapping.

    
    it's a raymond chandler evening
    at the end of someone's day
    and i'm standing in my pocket
    and i'm slowly turning grey
    
    i remember what i told you
    but i can't remember why
    and the yellow leaves are falling
    in a spiral from the sky
    
    there's a body on the railings
    that i can't identify
    and i'd like to reassure you
    but i'm not that kind of guy
    
    it's a raymond chandler evening
    and the pavements are all wet
    and i'm lurking in the shadows
    because it hasn't happened...yet.
    
    

    
    here dwells a snake, one thousand miles long
    coiled, one thousand miles deep
    eyes like candy, it has eyes like candy
    hard and blue, but soft as kittens feet
    out of sight or in the element of light
    it could be a devil, it could be an angel
    with spiders inside a vision from hell
    its spine is a vertical scream
    slow as concrete, blurred as a dream
    it spins round and down on an axis of atrocity
    fueled by inertia, depth, radius, and velocity
    its soul - a twisted wreckage of despair and pain
    and the spiders inside are just praying for rain
    killing time killing time
    and praying for rain
    one thousand miles deep
    
    
    "The Crow," J. O'Barr
    
    

    .27>     it spins round and down on an axis of atrocity
    .27>     fueled by inertia, depth, radius, and velocity
    
    
    
    Big whorls have little whorls
    	that feed on their velocity --
    And little whorls have lesser whorls,
    	and so on, to viscosity.
                                         

    
    Oh yeah, Dr. Dan, that's much better.  Watch as I bow down before
    your obvious superiority.  You're the God!  You're the God!  :-p
    

    
    
    
    Dedicated to Nicole Simpson, written by her children.
    
            "Dear Mother,
      Often we pause and think of you
          and think of how you died.
    And to think you could not say goodbye,
          before you closed your eyes.
        No one knows the silent heartaches;
     only those who have truely loved can tell
          of the grief that is born in silence;
            for the Mother we loved so well.
    
    
        Written by Nicole's children on a shirt dedicated in her honor, at
    the National Display in Washington DC, by her sister Denise Brown.
    
    
         Denise painted the shirt while the Clothesline Project was in
    Washington D.C.   She had first hung it on the Massachusetts line
    because that's where the clothesline Project started in 1990.    

    How old are these kids again?
    
    Chris

 .31  i know it.  "grief that is born in silence"?  hmmm.

Maybe the children penned, but did not compose it.

    
       I don't recall how old the children are, but after these replies
    I'm wondering if 'maybe' Denise helped them. I recall seeing pictures
    of them and they didn't look much older than say 10 years, if that.
    
    
       I re-wrote this from The clothesline Project and it said that it
    was written by the children in honor of their mother.... Denise Brown
    wrote it on the shirt for the Rally that was in Washington D. C. back
    in April. I saw the shirt and I know Denise did all the 'work' on it,
    she claims the children wrote the 'poem' for her to put on the shirt.
    
    
      Rosie

    You don't suppose Denise might be embellishing, do you? Nah.

    And it quite possible that one or both of the children wrote it. Or at
    least most of it. My sister wrote poems almost as polished as that when
    she was 11 years old. I don't know how old Sydney is, but I thought she
    was in the 10-12 range.
    
    But then it could be a crock ... Denise Brown hasn't impressed me as
    the most, ummm, scrupulously truthful individual
    
      Annie

    
    
        Well, as far as poems go I really liked it. I just wanted to share
    what I read and would like to believe that it was written by the
    children for their mom. 
    
        I'd hate to think that it was a 'crock' from the sister. But, who
    knows? But, like Annie said, these children could have wrote it for
    their mom.
    
    
         Rosie

    Sydney is 10, Justin 8 I believe.  The kids go to private school,
    so there's no telling how advanced they might be.  I would assume
    it was probably a joint project, i.e. kids expressing their feelings
    and working with an adult until they are satisfied.
    
    I've seen other children do it.
    
    

    RE: .38  Karen
    
    / I would assume it was probably a joint project, i.e. kids expressing 
    / their feelings and working with an adult until they are satisfied.
    
    This sounds most likely to me, too.

    Annus Mirabilis
    
    Sexual intercourse began
    In nineteen sixty-three
    (Which was ratheer late for me) --
    Between the end of the "Chatterley" ban
    And the Beatles' first LP.
    
    Up till then there'd only been
    A sort of bargaining,
    A wrangle for a ring,
    A shame that started at sixteen
    Ands spread to everything.
    
    Then all at once the quarrel sank:
    Everyone felt the same,
    And every life became
    A brilliant breaking of the bank,
    A quite unlosable game.
    
    So life was never better than
    In nineteen sixty-three
    (Though just too late for me) --
    Between the end of the "Chatterley" ban
    And the Beatles' first LP.
    
    Philip Larkin

                When, in doubt, you
                Cast a furtive glance about,
                Remember one who tried
                To give to you a warm and lovely
                Place to hide.

    
    
            Potholes in the ceiling
            Potholes in the floor
            Potholes in the walls
            Potholes in the doors
            Potholes all around the house
            Everywhere  I look
            Seems the missus don't take too well
            to hearing she cain't cook!
    
    
    
            (to the best of my recollection)
            (from the Red Green show on PBS N.H.)

    Ah yes, more funny Canadians at work. 8^)

I used to love my garden
But now that love is dead.
I found a bachelor's button
In black eyed Susans bed.

     
     Lines Found in the Wastebasket of a Vacant Office
     
     Once upon a midnight dreary, fingers cramped and vision bleary, System 
     manuals piled high and wasted paper on the floor,
     Longing for the warmth of bedsheets,  Still I sat there, doing 
     spreadsheets:
     Having reached the bottom line,
     I took a floppy from the drawer.
     Typing with a steady hand, I then invoked the SAVE command But got 
     instead a reprimand:  it read "Abort, Retry, Ignore".
     
     Was this some occult illusion?  Some maniacal intrusion? These were 
     choices Solomon himself had never faced before. Carefully, I weighed 
     my options.
     These three seemed to be the top ones. Clearly, I must now adopt one -
     Choose : "Abort, Retry, Ignore".
     
     With my fingers pale and trembling,
     Slowly toward the keyboard bending,
     Longing for a happy ending, hoping all would be restored, Praying for 
     some guarantee
     Finally I pressed a key --
     But on the screen what did I see?
     Again: "Abort, Retry, Ignore".
     
     I tried to catch the chips off-guard -- I pressed again, but twice as 
     hard.
     Luck was just not in the cards,
     I saw what I had seen before.
     Now I typed in desperation,
     Trying random combinations.
     Still there came the incantation -
     Choose: "Abort, Retry, Ignore".
     
     There I sat, distraught, exhausted, by my own machine accosted; 
     Getting up, I turned away and paced across the office floor. And then 
     I saw an awful sight,
     A bold and blinding flash of light,
     A lightning bolt that cut the night and shook me to my very core. The 
     PC screen collapsed and died,
     "Oh no -- my database", I cried.
     I thought I heard a voice reply,
     "You'll see your data -- Nevermore!"
     
     To this day I do not know
     The place to which our data goes
     Perhaps it goes to Heaven where the angels have it stored. But as for 
     productivity - well,
     I fear that it goes straight to Hell. And that's the tale I have to 
     tell - Your choice: Abort, Retry, Ignore.
     
     Anonymous, with all apologies due to E.A. Poe:

    	The only problem
    	with haiku is that you just
    	get started and then

    > get started and then
    
    there once was a man from Nantucket...

Hey, anyone remember the poem by "The Texas Chainsaw" of a 'box or two ago?
It consisted of dozens of clich�s put together in a rather clever way. My
wife would love it...

    are you speaking of the collaborative work he did with 
    the Cosmic Anchovy?  I don't have a copy but somebody must.
    
    DougO

    >>>> >I went to a party, Mom, I remembered what you said.
    >>>> >You told me not to drink, Mom, so I drank soda instead.
    >>>> >I really felt proud inside, Mom, the way you said I would.
    >>>> >I didn't drink and drive, Mom, even though the others said I
    should.
    >>>> >
    >>>> >I know I did the right thing, Mom, I know you are always right.
    >>>> >Now the party is finally ending, Mom, as everyone is driving
    outof
    >>>> >sight.
    >>>> >As I got into my car, Mom, I knew I'd get home in one piece.
    >>>> >Because of the way you raised me, so responsible and sweet.
    >>>> >
    >>>> >I started to drive away, Mom, but as I pulled out into the road,
    >>>> >the other car didn't see me, Mom, and hit me like a load.
    >>>> >As I lay there on the pavement, Mom, I hear the policeman say,
    >>>> >the other guy is drunk, Mom, and now I'm the one who will pay.
    >>>> >
    >>>> >I'm lying here dying, Mom..  I wish you'd get here soon.
    >>>> >How could this happen to me, Mom?  My life just burst like a
    balloon.
    >>>> >There is blood all around me, Mom, and most of it is mine.
    >>>> >I hear the medic say, Mom, I'll die in a short time.
    >>>> >
    >>>> >I just wanted to tell you, Mom, I swear I didn't drink.
    >>>> >It was the others, Mom.  The others didn't think.
    >>>> >He was probably at the same party as I.
    >>>> >The only difference is, he drank and I will die.
    >>>> >
    >>>> >Why do people drink, Mom?  It can ruin your whole life.
    >>>> >I'm feeling sharp pains now.  Pains just like a knife.
    >>>> >The guy who hit me is walking, Mom, and I don't think it's fair.
    >>>> >I'm lying here dying and all he can do is stare.
    >>>> >
    >>>> >Tell my brother not to cry, Mom.  Tell Daddy to be brave.
    >>>> >And when I go to heaven, Mom, put "Daddy's Girl" on my grave
    >>>> >Someone should have told him, Mom, not to drink and drive.
    >>>> >If only they had told him, Mom, I would still be alive.
    >>>> >
    >>>> >My breath is getting shorter, Mom.  I'm becoming very scared.
    >>>> >Please don't cry for me, Mom.  When I needed you, you were always
    there.
    >>>> >I have one last question, Mom, before I say good bye.
    >>>> >I didn't drink and drive, so why am I the one to die?

	Toity poiple boids, sittin' on a coib,
	choipin' and boipin'
	and eatin' doity woims.

    .73 is a "Dear Abby" oldie.   She prints it at least once a year.

    .74 I thought it was toity doity boids?

    That was good Pril... A copy of that should be sent to every kid in
    High Schoolll...
    
    SueJ

   .76  well see, there are two warring factions where this is
        concerned, and i don't like to get involved.  it can turn
	ugly _real_ quick-like.

    re disagreement on the 
    Toity Poiple Boids
    
    Dats de way my grammmy from the Bronx always said it.
    
    meg

    My Love
    
                                                                             
    
    Let the tears flow now
    To wash away the years of memories
    To cleanse a wounded soul
    To what end is this?
    When all has been lost
    And nothing gained
    
    Grieve now, my heart
    Scream loudly into the face of loneliness
    Steel yourself against the thoughts of yesterday
    And look only to tomorrow
    Praying that the darkness will give way
    
    Destroyed by your trust
    Betrayed by your devotion
    Searching for meaning
    In a land that time will never heal
    Tortured by fading voices offering warmth
    
    And now
    Twisted and bitter and denied
    Find your refuge in hate
    Rest behind walls of hurt
    Till, once more
    You bare your soul to another
    And walk naked into the murderous arms of Love
    
    - Eric Stanfield 

    yup. couldn't have said it better.

    ODE TO A MAMMOGRAM
    >
    >For years 'n years they told me,
    >"Be careful of your breasts."
    >Don't ever squeeze or bruise them.
    >And give them monthly tests.
    >So I heeded all their warnings
    >And protected them by Law...
    >Guarded them very carefully,
    >And always wore a bra.
    >After 30 years of careful care,
    >The doctor found a lump,
    >He ordered up a mammogram
    >To look inside that clump.
    >"Stand up very close, "she said,
    >as she got my tit in line.
    >"And tell me when it hurts," she said.
    >"Ah yes! There! That's just fine.
    >She stepped upon a pedal...
    >I could not believe my eyes!
    >A plastic plate was pressing down...,
    >My boob was in a vice!!!
    >My skin was stretched 'n stretched
    >From way up by my chin,
    >And my poor tit was being quashed
    >To Swedish pancake thin!!
    >Excruciating pain I felt
    >Within its vice-like grip.
    >A prisioner in this vicious thing.
    >My poor defenseless tit.
    >"Take a deep breath," she said to me
    >Who Does she think she's kidding?
    >My chest is smashed in her machine.
    >I can't breath and woozy I am gettin
    >"There, that was good," I heard her say
    >As the room was slowly swaying
    >"Now let's get the other one."
    >"Lord, have mercy." I was praying.
    >It squeezed me from both sides.
    >I'll bet she's never had this done
    >To her tender little hide!
    >If I had no problem when I came in,
    >I surely have on now...
    >If there was a cyst in there,
    >It would have popped---Ker-Pow!!
    >This machine was made by man,
    >Of this I have no doubt......
    >I'd like to get his balls in there,
    >For months...he'd go "without"!!!
    >
    >
    

	<shudder>

    it's a very tinny poem.

    I love that poem,
    
    Unfortunately it had to be taken out of one file because of complaints
    by some people of gender.

    >by some people of gender.
    
     As opposed to what?!!

RuPaul.

    gender is not a dichotomous variable.
    
    hth

RE: .85

Well, at least the poster had the good sense not to translate it into 
German.