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English
Interesting.
I like ya writin' hon.
cool
I couldn't dance to the flow but I loved the message.
sandspike
"
I can't dance at all. Due to an injury when I almost drownded in a stream of consciousness, dressed as an anagram.
ag
Pigs don't fly
I had a wild Association when I read the poem.I was back in my youth, reminded of one of the poems by Manos Hadjidakis and Mikis Theodorakis. This was a very popular protest song poet at the time of the rule of the generals in Greece. I don’t speak the language but the poems were translated (not to English). One of them seemed amazingly jubilant and rhythmic. I gradually grasped the fact that the words were about the torture house in which the generals were “treating” the opposition. To say that I was shook by the contrast would be a euphemism. Finally, I understood that the energy was because of the resolution to resist even till death, but there was no light hearted happiness there. Back to this poem. You make a calculated use of contrasts for a dramatic effect. You want and you succeed to manipulate our feelings. On one hand the “natural” “Happy” images of beautiful cheerful looking animals. Are they at the farm? Is this a Pastorala? childrens rhymes? those impressions arew evoked, just like in harmless children books. None of this could possibly harm and scare us. Even the repetitions lure us to a false sense of thematic safety. Then you lend on us with your Slaughter house like the bombers on Dresden... banishing the commercial euphemisms that cover the endless slaughter which feeds us with meat. Do we need all that? Maybe we do maybe we don’t. At least with this kind of a poem you will just eat the meat and with out the commercial crap of happy cows smiling chickens and dancing pigs in the green sunny farms. Care for a Meatless burger?
poor piggy
Nice PomPuss ProDucTion. I never liked that Blake poem, but you give me another reason to not like it. He was probably eating pork while revising it.
the thought
of sandspike dancing to Willaim Blake/ I'm better than I thought/ Jimmy Dean came to me in a dream/ and offered me a million dollars/I am the best Literotica poet/ at least in my own head/which is filled with sausage/
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