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Ray Gunn

Fri, 25 Sep 2026 15:04:29 +0000

Personally I love her, I don't hold much stock in Olympic sport, when she says 'im an academic' having a doctorate in dance and pulling out the sprinkler when people want head spins. Was she in over her head or just too high above? Is she a joke or a true contender? I know youve thought about her, I'd like to know what you thought

Vocabulary

Fri, 25 Sep 2026 11:59:14 +0000

I recently found a list of 111 prohibited words (on a web site called 'Pretend Genius' so it might possibly be irony).

So my question is: what's the legitimate vocabulary for poetry? I'll reserve my opinions to avoid bias.

another ballad

Thu, 24 Sep 2026 20:05:16 +0000

Just been thrown off another forum (for 'professional' poets) within 30 seconds of posting this ballad, so I'll try here instead;

Song of the Lunatic Pilgrim

All round my hat I wear the green willow
and on my feet the sandal shoon,
for lost am I, who through leafless boughs
looked on old Mother Moon.
I followed the track of the swan on the lake
and, in the wind that blew
among the whispering rushes there
this rose I picked for you.
This rose has thorns both sharp and fine
to prick your finger deep and sore,
but though your blood be hot as fire
you'll never see me more.
For round my hat I wear the green willow
and on my feet the sandal shoon,
and lost am I, who through leafless boughs
looked on old Mother Moon.

DeOrAnalog hey!

Thu, 24 Sep 2026 18:45:53 +0000

Will you please critique this poem? I'd like to talk about critiquing a bit with you

Haunted

Deadbolt the doors, the killer is coming.
Not that it matters, soon they'll all be dead.
Break-in the window while thunder's drumming,
no time to dodge a sharp blow to the head.
Quiet, but air conditioning's humming...
one more minute and the killer has fled.

Once the dawn broke, the neighbor went inside.
'Dead on the doormat,' describing the scene,
'Quite horrific, she was so young!' she cried
not too dramatic for this gossip queen.
No evidence treachery was implied,
breaks in this case were completely wiped clean.

Braking hard, roads wet, the Cadillac swerved
one second too late for a head-on crash.
No trace was left, even the money burned.
Dead, the killer was now one with his cash.
Nodding together, detectives discerned
quite incriminating facts from the trash.

Quiet so as not to scare him away,
break-ups a motive, the boyfriend was rough.
Not that an ex-con is prone to foul play,
one only hopes they'd avoid more handcuffs.
'Dead inside, dead to the world,' he would say,
'No way I ever could have done that stuff!'

Knowing full well he hired the assassin,
quite well aware he could go to prison.
Dead-ended life, the price for his passion.
Breaks won't come easy, he's unforgiven,
wondering who'll care, head-strong, he fastens
knots in the string, his silent admission.

Not that it matters, since everyone died.
Notice the neighbor who made the first call?
One by one, all of the lovers she spied.
Quite content when she saw the bloody sprawl.
'Break moral laws, whores are the Devil's bride.
Dead's where they belong, to hell with them all!'

Deadly poison braking free, shes taunted
by quiet naughty influence undaunted.
No one's suggested, the house was haunted,

Condolences

Wed, 23 Sep 2026 19:41:09 +0000

Condolences

Your scythe’s grown dull, old Harvester–
it cuts the bloom of grasses raggedly
and some heads not at all, they merely bend
as if a moaning breeze had passed
not lord of all Earth’s ends,
their pride and beauty’s grim dispatcher.

Instead of cleanly clipped they waver on
upheld as if by vigor but in truth
alive in overtime by clever tricks
of life-support which stay your fated arc
too long: they blink, forget, and fade
but not to dust.

How they must mock you at the Horsemen’s Club,
those fabled slayers Pestilence and War
and Famine, though they too have shrunk away
to sulk on thrones too massive, overgrown
with poppies and their terrors overthrown
by Public Health, Deterrence, UNICEF!

On Surviving an ICE Raid Without Health Insurance

Tue, 22 Sep 2026 19:36:08 +0000

On Surviving an ICE Raid Without Health Insurance

They came for me at noon. I was eating tuna fish and
crackers, had just spread the relish carefully when my
front door exploded. The men, a stream of skully masks
and military contraband, barked a stream of orders nobody
could understand. Held my little Bassett hound at gunpoint
just for kicks. It didn’t really work: he got exhausted
running willy-nilly there between the leather trees,
the jungle of their boots. Kept hollering a storm, the baby
just wanted to play. “Shut him up,” the leader said,
a Christmas tree with ammo belts, then leaned back
on the trigger. A crack, a smell of phosphorus, then
everything was wind. I woke up in a field of blood, bullets
spread around like grain, my best friend licking at the wound
that didn’t even hurt. The roof was gone, you could see
the sky spread out for miles. Walked out on the front porch,
the mailman handed me my life.

A ballad

Tue, 22 Sep 2026 13:35:02 +0000

Trial by Water

'You tell me all your roving years
you've had no love but me.
Look, then, on this mirror lake,
and tell me what you see.'
'I see but my own face, my dear,
green branches, empty skies...'
'Nought else?
Why then these trembling hands,
that dead light in your eyes?'
'Ophelia, Ophelia...'
the wild bird taunting cries.

Tampered Plates

Tue, 22 Sep 2026 05:59:41 +0000

Tampered plates

I miss that new car smell.
Fresh rose ribbon.
That piercing red
riding through the hood
like laser-guided
double-dutch strobes.
I hate your prickles
you should shave them.
They hurt my hands, and I’m a
Carpenter.
Not the last name though.
I pray to Juno,
we’ll be blessed with you know
the thing itself.
Little lamb, I can save
you from these sc
alprs — these paparazzi
birdhouse-looking clankers.
You’re getting scammed.
The flock arrives – a murder.
Anguish.

MINI-VAN ROOF-RACK
HA-LO SHIN-ING.
WRN-KL3S
RIP-PLE MY-PAINT.
SCH-OOL MOR-NING
TRA-FFIC MAN-EUVERS.
BAR-REL ROLLS
LE-AVE YOU-IN
FIX-ATION PLA-TES.

You’ve blessed my lens.
Stored in amber,
heard you deserved it.
Querying through clouds,
collected like hot wheels cars,
unhealed blisterpacks—
childhood scars.
I’m up here crucified
while you spread blatant lies.
In my black cap,
Joe Goldberg,
you stand out from the herd.
Wait, that’s not you.
You’re slimmer than I,
with my all-seeing eye.
I’m like your
big brother.

AL-BAT ROSS-CANT
SH-OOT MED-OWN.
PH-OTO SHOOT-IM
A-SELF DRI-VING MO-DEL.
THE-RES NO-SECRET.
IS-TRUT DOWN-THE
FREE-WAY. GET-YOUR
PAP-ER PLATES.
H4N-DL3 THE-SE
WIN-GS.

Imported, exotic.
I love your features.
Fluttering wipers
with a wide bumper.
You should show your
grille more! Wendy’s
biggiebag crumbs on the seats.
Love your handles
and the way you handle.
Unlike these American
Kia’s.

A-2002 TRANS FIRE-BIRD.
LAD -LAZA RUS-IRISE
WITH-MY RED-HAIR
EAT-MEN LIKE-EYRE.
RAT-HER CHOO-SE
THE-BEAR.

Prophet Watches Instagram Man in Robocop Suit Dance

Mon, 21 Sep 2026 16:17:29 +0000

Prophet Watches Instagram Man
in Robocop Suit Dance with Strangers

Since my wife got cancer
we treat every day like this.

We don’t give a fuck
if you think we are crazy.

We are celebrating life
day by day by day.

Certain

Mon, 21 Sep 2026 13:12:04 +0000

Preramble

People say I'm hoarding. I say, yeah, I'm hoarding. That's part of my style.
Like Woody Allen done; he made neurosis part of his style.

Yeah. And he married his teenage daughter.

Well I'll make that part of my style too.

Certain

Commerce, Propaganda.
I'm sorry, little fellow.
You seem like you're a nice guy,
Liberty Biberty.

Like Jesus, brought up
from a story and a certain
family. But there must
be a point, a center
Point
to glow from:

as fictional as the self,
for anything to happen.

True, anything can happen
anyway with or without
a point.
Even love.

Even Love.

poems to be con't elsewhere

A critic told me that I have no complex human voice.
I find that appropriate for my style. I have no complex human voice. That is a trope that I will continue with. Complex human voices are a new ark.
I won't say a flood, as I like floods.
Solve. As Alan Moore said, the 19th century up till now has had enough Solve.
But coagula is facist[sic].
That's a theme enough.

about a real event

Mon, 21 Sep 2026 11:24:47 +0000

Seven years on

The ancient ash tree fell
quietly: its hollow shell,
lately the home of bees,
bereft of its past might.

(They, being wise,
a month before departed
knowing it had died).

Two centuries it stood
and now it rests
prone, year on year:
a lair for creeping things.
Reluctant to descend at last
into eternal night.

On Falling From a Bicycle, Hitting One’s Head

Sun, 20 Sep 2026 23:26:44 +0000

On Falling From a Bicycle, Hitting One’s Head
Hard and Waking to a Not Unkindly Caretaker
Named Jean-Marie

Violence has always been a friend
to France, where the wineglass was invented
based on how a neck without its head looks
more or less like a young woman’s breast,
or so the story goes. I always want to ask,
What story? and Where does it go? but I know
being clever gets you killed, and I enjoy my life.
I don’t want to be separated quite yet
from the magic bean, the prune that stirs the drink. Amuse
ma bouche, Napoleon—I think that’s Gertrude Stein. It might just be
Joan Rivers though. There’s no way to be sure. If you’re blessed
with a strong idea, never look it up.
The facts too often prove it wrong, and then
what can you do? You can’t just go on fucking anything
that pulls off leather. Once they take your blood
there’s no pretending you’re not sick.
It was William Carlos who first called the hospital
contagious, clocked its hallways white as pain,
as valium and sheep. It’s a barbaric business, nowhere
anyone should hurry. You take one step
through those glass doors, the meter starts to run.

Interview

Sat, 19 Sep 2026 23:08:15 +0000

Interview

Where did you come from?
A hole in my mother.

Where are you going?
A hole in the ground.

Let us rejoice: a royale weddinge by John Doe

Sat, 19 Sep 2026 22:35:21 +0000

Gracious maiestie, I hope you will forgiue these lines, dashed offe in excitement at the prospect of what I thinke will be our weddinge. I have been hid fourteene days in a village that owes its allegiance to your cosin Marie, and it is sweete to see that they loue your family soe.
No one knows my (x,y) so toe speake, a code that the Frenche use for location ha!ha! Except Sirre Francis W. who assurede me that you would like to wed and calle yourself Mrs Walter Raleighe. That you woulde want mee to be head on high stakes matters. It bringes me ioy, for my actions in Irelande and the New Worlde in teachinge the minions respect are bearing fruit.
Until we meete, a fyne poem from the world’s fynest and handsomest poete:

~ Johne Doe (my nom de plume)

O highness, will you fancie me?
I will not call you an ugliee
florid bummed fat baboone
like they do in all the pubbes
naminge lard and tallow tubbes
after you, dear maiestie.
Onlie whisper sweete nothinges
into your time worn ear,
slip large dia weddinge ringes,
proven to fitte a bear,
and call you wife rest of your life
seatede on a comfy chaire.
Kit’s been run through with a knife,
and that dastardly Shakepaire
is claiming all my verse for hisse,
addressed to ye, ladie faire
(for a white lie is not called a lie
by Saracen or Hindoo,
pagan Catholik bound to die,
e’en the scheming Jewe).
O highnesse, voices heard outside
call for mee by name,
and a goodly bitte of contryside
has lighted uppe in flames -
a bonfire to celebrate our loue
queene and king new made,
am I to be re-knighted? I see
one draws near with his blade!

Better Critiques

Fri, 18 Sep 2026 16:48:09 +0000

Hi, I notice there is a paucity of fulsome reviews lately. So I have decided to Be the Change.

I'm gonna do 5 max effort crits to try to reset the norms. Let me know if you have something you want read in detail.

<3