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Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 29-May 15:43:16 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 80040
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Poetry
[time] => 2005-01-15 23:45:25
[hometext] => I'm not sure if this is done or not....i'm sick.....i hate being sick.....tell me what you think....perhaps you'll see this one again....
[bodytext] => Poetry is a dead thing, The man at the bar said, It is the dusty haze at the stir of an abandoned book. It is a rotted carcass creeping at the edge of the earth. And it is this bottle emptied in fear, This dirty face tempered with beer. It is all of the sad songs that we sing. Poetry is my life, the old man said, and my life is full of death. Old friends on dirty matresses on dirty, wooden floors; My brothers throat singing a plastic consumption (in Africa it is gold) singing buy more now, buy more, forget your family, buy more... And poetry is an empty grave waiting to be filled I am the digger I am the empty field. [comments] => 1 [counter] => 169 [topic] => 48 [informant] => iodinelove [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => EmotionalPoetry )
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