This Poem was Submitted By: Mark Steven Scheffer On Date: 2012-02-03 23:48:59 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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i woke up and read keats

                                                                                      i woke up and read keats,                                                                                       but all i heard, hung over                                                                                       and sentimental as hell,                                                                                       was 99 luftballons                                                                                       (and i watched                                                                                       a hidden archer                                                                                       pop them,                                                                                       one                                                                                        by                                                                                        one)                                                                                       i loved you,                                                                                       with my cup of coffee,                                                                                       and the wretched                                                                                       poison,                                                                                       of alcohol,                                                                                       of life,                                                                                       far                                                                                        from                                                                                        berlin,                                                                                       or stuttgart,                                                                                       or wherever                                                                                       it was they                                                                                        blew them up,                                                                                       only to let them                                                                                        go.

Copyright © February 2012 Mark Steven Scheffer

This Poem was Critiqued By: James C. Horak On Date: 2012-03-06 13:07:16
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Well, I wish you had chosen PB Shelley. By the way, are you going to let "poetbard" (laughable) zone in on you with his typically awful, oblique and labored (overly carried) euphemisms?... (the mark of one incapable of ever being able to speak candidly.) His one observable talent is to NEVER come up on the right side of any moral issue. "Humpty Dumpty complex"...that would be grotesque even if the context applied. He deserves the last word on ANYTHING like I deserve Rachel's love. JCH

This Poem was Critiqued By: Dellena Rovito On Date: 2012-03-04 19:27:57
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Mark, With knowledge, things change. Unwanted or not you learn. We're suppose to grow no matter. The only real choices most times is how we respond. ontrol is a wonderful thing we possess so little of and yet we believe differently. Whose the puppet master. You're writing is always deep. Most don't want to think and face truths. good job, great imagery. dellena
This Poem was Critiqued By: Tony P Spicuglia On Date: 2012-03-03 10:51:51
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Considering… the timing aspect- it is an interesting view- the inimitable, sharing a sloshing drink, in the unique styles of a discotheque, svelte and eyeballing the queen of the dance- anyways- To this day that song brings the dancers out when I need a go to for dance while DJing. Most have no idea what the song is, but the beat is bitchin’ And I guess I’ve left the purpose here (I had to rest with that vision a moment. In fact, as Bill Engvall said to Neil Giuntoli on the Jeff Foxworthy Show, (one of my favorite t.v. quotes) “Thank you very much, now I’m going to have to kill a pig to get that image out of my mind.” Actually I know I have completely desensitized your wonderful offering, so let me get to it again. (Paraphrased from “The Poor Sportsmen of the Apocalypse”). A bit you probably cannot know about me; of the great triumvirate, Keats, Shelly, and Byron- I read, by far more of Keats. This has peaked my interest each time I visited the site and tried to function my way through your moment. Then again, it is the interaction of the sexes at a base level; and then again berlin? Stuttgart? and blow up? I choose to remember the beat of the beast, the veil of the poisen- and presume the reference of dirigibles or baloonables is metaphorable for the difficulties of navigating the man/woman ongoing allegory. If not- at least you were seeing red.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Mark Andrew Hislop On Date: 2012-02-08 18:42:32
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
MSS I'm guessing she's younger than you are. Explains the adolescent fantasy overtones here :-) "Let them go"? Don't flatter yourself: they were always gonna leave. MAH
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