< another god-damned easter poem >

[rayheinrich]

I'm really new to this poetry thing,  I don't really see the point if there even was one, it was confusing and jumped from one abstract thought to another, if confusion was your goal then you shall be glad to know I am thoroughly lost maybe it will hit me in a cpl hours, now I want chocolate, that's all this has left on my mind.

When you said:  "it was confusing and jumped from one abstract thought
to another", you pretty much summed it up. It's intended to do just that.

The tag-line for my poems is: "Poetry for people who make it up as they go."
In this poem (as in many of my poems) it's up to the reader to create their own poem.

This does not mean I've thrown together a bunch of random garbage;
I spend a LOT of time constructing these poems, there are cohesive
structures contained within them.

But you gotta like riddles, gotta like to play this game; if not, it's just shit.
Notice I'm not saying it SEEMS like shit, I'm saying it IS shit. Truth in advertising.

Chocolate, on the other hand, is just plain sublime; no riddles involved, none necessary.

---

"like the rock upon which all that follows will be built" So the rock was peter, so are you saying everything that will be built, will be built upon your peter?

Man, thank god this is in missile anus, I'd hate to have to critique this chocolate cow pie of a poem. As John the Beloved said, after being beloved, "We find in sense, insanity: in confusion we find truth, for truth can only be comprehended by the unordered mind, having left rationality on the shore awaiting our return." I guess he was a little loopy.

These people are always praying to Jesus to do something for them, when in reality we should be praying for him, after all he literally went through Hell and back and all we can ask is if he got us a souvenir. Well, at least he was well hung.

John Wayne's Greatest Role[/url]

dale

My peter gets as hard as a rock while listening to any word ever uttered by
Jean Arthur (this is called a 'fetish'). It does NOT, however, like anything built
upon it (well, ok, maybe Jean Arthur's vulva [damn, there goes my fetish again]).

I'm glad for both of us you don't have to critique this poem; it would be like critiquing a
phone book, only less rewarding. (Though, I must admit, I'd be flatteningly flattered by
every single tiny little minusculian minatorily minacious word you built upon it.)

John Wayne's greatest role was in John Ford's "The Searchers".

ray