Perfect Man

[. . . .]

The perfect man is gentle,
Never cruel or mean;
He has a beautiful smile,
And keeps his face so clean.
The perfect man likes children
And will raise them by your side.
He will be a darn good father
And husband to his bride.
The perfect man loves cooking,
Cleaning and vacuuming, too.
He’ll do everything in his power
To show his love to you.
The perfect man is sweet,
Writing poetry in your name.
He’s a best friend to your mother
And kisses away your pain.
He never makes you cry
Or hurt in any way…
Oh, fuck this stupid poem
The perfect man is gay!


Being poetically challenged U know I didn't write this; author unknown.

[Wildcard]

The perfect man is a woman

[. . . .]

The perfect man is a woman

I cant spell estrogen, oh wait I just did.

[rayheinrich]

Nothing puts the 'fun' in 'fun poetry' like banal stereotypes*
Keep those puppies coming.

*As opposed to creative stereotypes.

P.S.:
 

                    < words >
         
             and words come 
             in most shapes and sizes
             and words say 
             what they shouldn't 
                (and what they should)
             and words 
             can be said by anybody
                (and their sister and brother
                 and neighbor and mother) 
             and words
                (though you imprison them
                 and torture them
                 and even 
                 ignore them)
             will always
             be said   
          
                      - - -

[. . . .]

Hey keep your sincerity from hijacking my thread on the perfection of a male.. Or I will break out my gob and smack U upside yo head.
My complete lack of originality and depth was designed to mislead U.
It is appropriate for the homophobe, rather than the homosexual, to be apologizing for his/her existence.

[Erthona]

Being gay, doesn't mean your poetry isn't lame,
but write your own material, so we'll know who to blame!

[rayheinrich]

Yes, Mr. Fourdot, I should open a discussion thread on critiquing implied
prejudice. Please feel free to continue with yours.

[Erthona]

"My complete lack of originality and depth was designed to mislead U."

It was hardly your "lack" as you did not write the piece.

"Being poetically challenged U know I didn't write this; author unknown."

I would say the author was also poetically challenged. Written in a simply, as well as simplistic, accentual trimeter, and while it is not metered, it does have a certain rhythmical quality, which he fails at with "He has a beautiful smile," as all three accents occur in the last four syllables. This is not rocket science, we were writing this stuff in grade school.

I really don't give a damn what your sexual preference is, but I do care when someone tries and proselytizes me with propaganda, especially when it is not even written by them.

Dale

[Erthona]

Hey Ray, I missed that "Mr. Fourdot" ! Now that's funny!

Dale

[tectak]

The perfect man is gentle,
Never cruel or mean;
He has a beautiful smile,
And keeps his face so clean.
The perfect man likes children
And will raise them by your side.
He will be a darn good father
And husband to his bride.
The perfect man loves cooking,
Cleaning and vacuuming, too.
He’ll do everything in his power
To show his love to you.
The perfect man is sweet,
Writing poetry in your name.
He’s a best friend to your mother
And kisses away your pain.
He never makes you cry
Or hurt in any way…
Oh, fuck this stupid poem
The perfect man is gay!


Being poetically challenged U know I didn't write this; author unknown.

Give me strength...no. Give me a gun.

[rayheinrich]

Give me strength...no. Give me a gun.

You have a stronger will than I.
Don't give me a gun, if you gave me a gun I'd
NEVER STOP SHOOTING!

[Erthona]

"there IS no box"

"box" is only a mental construct which expands in direct proportion to the expansion of the pussy inside of the mental construct, that is to say it is a flag manifold.

[tectak]

"there IS no box"

"box" is only a mental construct which expands in direct proportion to the expansion of the pussy inside of the mental construct, that is to say it is a flag manifold.

Not according to Schroedinger.

[Erthona]

Schroedinger thought all pussies were the borogoves
leading two four torus Memphis El-fi belly globes!
That histusai day Miss A. Cippy Dell Tah Man-boobs!
Cuz Ibeee uh Manish boy, MAine!!!!
an knee deep in Muddy Water blues.

[Bronte]

The perfect man he comes with spares.
Two hand to hold me safe
Two feet to run to my aid
Two ear’s to listen for my needs
Two eyes to feast on my beauty
Two balls to keep his hands warm

And as it is well known the perfect man is not yet to be.

Pity! Eh!

[. . . .]

"My complete lack of originality and depth was designed to mislead U."

It was hardly your "lack" as you did not write the piece.

"Being poetically challenged U know I didn't write this; author unknown."

I would say the author was also poetically challenged. Written in a simply, as well as simplistic, accentual trimeter, and while it is not metered, it does have a certain rhythmical quality, which he fails at with "He has a beautiful smile," as all three accents occur in the last four syllables. This is not rocket science, we were writing this stuff in grade school.

I really don't give a damn what your sexual preference is, but I do care when someone tries and proselytizes me with propaganda, especially when it is not even written by them.

Dale

Did u cum up with that all by yourself? I'm still sorta waiting for U to get to the point..

---

The perfect man he comes with spares.
Two hand to hold me safe
Two feet to run to my aid
Two ear’s to listen for my needs
Two eyes to feast on my beauty
Two balls to keep his hands warm

And as it is well known the perfect man is not yet to be.

Pity! Eh!

Yup

[Erthona]

The point is write your own poetry to post.

[Claudia-Larsen]

this made me so happy lol C:

[rayheinrich]

From an Atlas of the Difficult World

I know you are reading this poem
late, before leaving your office
of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window
in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet
long after rush-hour. I know you are reading this poem
standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean
on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven
across the plains’ enormous spaces around you.
I know you are reading this poem
in a room where too much has happened for you to bear
where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed
and the open valise speaks of flight
but you cannot leave yet.
I know you are reading this poem
as the underground train loses momentum and before running
up the stairs
toward a new kind of love
your life has never allowed.
I know you are reading this poem by the light
of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide
while you wait for the newscast from the intifada.
I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room
of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers.
I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light
in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out,
count themselves out, at too early an age.
I know you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick
lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on
because even the alphabet is precious.
I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove
warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your
hand because life is short and you too are thirsty.
I know you are reading this poem which is not in your language
guessing at some words while others keep you reading
and I want to know which words they are.
I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn
between bitterness and hope
turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.
I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else
left to read
there where you have landed, stripped as you are.

—Adrienne Rich, from An Atlas of the Difficult World

[ellajam]

From an Atlas of the Difficult World

I know you are reading this poem
late, before leaving your office
of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window
in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet
long after rush-hour. I know you are reading this poem
standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean
on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven
across the plains’ enormous spaces around you.
I know you are reading this poem
in a room where too much has happened for you to bear
where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed
and the open valise speaks of flight
but you cannot leave yet. I know you are reading this poem
as the underground train loses momentum and before running
up the stairs
toward a new kind of love
your life has never allowed.
I know you are reading this poem by the light
of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide
while you wait for the newscast from the intifada.
I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room
of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers.
I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light
in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out,
count themselves out, at too early an age. I know
you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick
lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on
because even the alphabet is precious.
I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove
warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your
hand
because life is short and you too are thirsty.
I know you are reading this poem which is not in your language
guessing at some words while others keep you reading
and I want to know which words they are.
I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn
between bitterness and hope
turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.
I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else
left to read
there where you have landed, stripped as you are.

—Adrienne Rich, from An Atlas of the Difficult World

So much, it's a heart-filler. Thanks, ray, so much.