Fri, 17/02/2017 - 18:13

As we all know music is basically poetry put to a melody. With that being said who is your favorite poet who isn't a singer in a band? They can have done something with a band just not be the singer of the band. Also anyone else here a poet? My favorite poet at least at the moment is Edgar Oliver.

bad_american1992's picture

Heavy Metal Rules
Tons of Cool Shit On
T Shirt Slayer
-"TSS Haiku", author unknown

Skygge's picture

Hahaha nice

StereoDeth's picture

Ha, just posted a haiku about butterfly...pins yesterday. :D

Nater90's picture

Dude...Your self portrait is fucking amazing!

StereoDeth's picture

Thank you very much! :)

Into Glory Ride's picture


nameless_rites's picture

T shirt slayer is
Fun for everyone who posts
Even antifa

StereoDeth's picture

Dieter Bohlen, the guitarist of Modern Talking.
Very poetic person.

andermatten's picture

you are joking, aren't you? excellent.

Nater90's picture

One of my favourite poems is by Edgar Allan Poe, Called Annabel Lee.

Metaldemon's picture

Edgar Alan Poe. The pendulum

Nater90's picture

Do you mean The Pit and the Pendulum? Started to read it, Very good so far, Thanks!

Metaldemon's picture

Your right! Pit and the pendulum serviving on 2 hours sleep.

Nater90's picture

Yeah I started to read it a bit before bed was rooted.

grime81's picture

the pit and the pendulum contains one of my favorites lines : "The figures of fiends in aspects of menace, with skeleton forms, and other more really fearful images, overspread and disfigured the walls."

Skygge's picture

Edgar Allan Poe is amazing

Furius's picture

Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

William Blake

TheSabbathsCreed's picture

Me when I'm drunk haha.........

Skygge's picture

Nice haha

Skygge's picture

Margareta Pushkina is also great. She is one of the lyricists for the band Ария my favorite band

odder7's picture

Christing Jesus, where to begin? Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Rilke, Akhmatova, Mayakovsky, Szymborska, Stevens, Tate, Whitman, Levine, Dugan, Ashbery..every fucking poet bites on Ashbury these days it seems.. Contemporary must read: Denis Johnson, August Kleinzahler, Claudia Rankine...Jesus Fuck, you know what,..I'm just going to say this: Tony Hoagland gets a lot of grief these days in the poetry world (people say he's sexist, he's racist, he's just another old white male fart from the patriarchal past.. but his poetry really does it right. No pretentious absurd bullshit written like a code to crack in the name of "confusing you into feeling something" malarky. Hoagland's shit is on the page. Oh, and Matthew Lippman too. Even if you don't LIKE it, if you write you should just try to get your emotional logic on the fucking page like these guys do.

2 from Tony followed by a poem by Mr. Lipp:

Adam and Eve

I wanted to punch her right in the mouth and that's the truth.

After all, we had gotten from the station of the flickering glances
to the station of the hungry mouths,
from the shoreline of skirts and faded jeans
to the ocean of unencumbered skin,
from the perilous mountaintop of the apartment steps
to the sanctified valley of the bed--

the candle fluttering upon the dresser top, its little yellow blade
sending up its whiff of waxy smoke,
and I could smell her readiness
like a dank cloud above a field,

when at the crucial moment, the all-important moment,
the moment standing at attention,
she held her milk white hand agitatedly
over the entrance to her body and said No,
and my brain burst into flame.

If I couldn't sink myself in her like a dark spur
or dissolve into her like a clod thrown in a river,
can I go all the way in the saying, and say
I wanted to punch her right in the face?
Am I allowed to say that,
that I wanted to punch her right in her soft face?

Or is the saying just another instance of rapaciousness,
just another way of doing what I wanted then,
by saying it?

Is a man just an animal, and is a woman not an animal?
Is the name of the animal power?
Is it true that the man wishes to see the woman
hurt with her own pleasure

and the woman wishes to see the expression on the man's face
of someone falling from great height,
that the woman thrills with the power of her weakness
and the man is astonished by the weakness of his power?

Is the sexual chase a hunt where the animal inside
drags the human down
into a jungle made of vowels,
hormonal undergrowth of sweat and hair,

or is this an obsolete idea
lodged like a fossil
in the brain of the ape
who lives inside the man?

Can the fossil be surgically removed
or dissolved, or redesigned
so the man can be a human being, like a woman?

Does the woman see the man as a house
where she might live in safety,
and does the man see the woman as a door
through which he might escape
the hated prison of himself,

and when the door is locked,
does he hate the door instead?
Does he learn to hate all doors?

I've seen rain turn into snow then back to rain,
and I've seen making love turn into fucking
then back to making love,
and no one covered up their faces out of shame,
no one rose and walked into the lonely maw of night.

But where was there, in fact, to go?
Are some things better left unsaid?
Shall I tell you her name?
Can I say it again,
that I wanted to punch her right in the face?

Until we say the truth, there can be no tenderness.
As long as there is desire, we will not be safe.


To whomever taught me the word dickhead,
I owe a debt of thanks.
It gave me a way of being in the world of men
when I most needed one,

when I was pale and scrawny,
naked, goosefleshed
as a plucked chicken

in a supermarket cooler, a poor
forked thing stranded in the savage
universe of puberty, where wild

jockstraps flew across the steamy
skies of locker rooms,
and everybody fell down laughing

at jokes I didn’t understand.
But dickhead was a word as dumb
and democratic as a hammer, an object

you could pick up in your hand,
and swing,
saying dickhead this and dickhead that,

a song that meant the world
was yours enough at least
to bang on like a garbage can,

and knowing it, and having that
beautiful ugliness always
cocked and loaded in my mind,

protected me and calmed me like a psalm.
Now I have myself become
a beautiful ugliness,

and my weakness is a fact
so well established that
it makes me calm,

and I am calm enough
to be grateful for the lives I
never have to live again;

but I remember all the bad old days
back in the world of men,
when everything was serious, mysterious, scary,

hairier and bigger than I was;
I recall when flesh
was what I hated, feared

and was excluded from:
Hardly knowing what I did,
or what would come of it,

I made a word my friend.

Like Lizards

The madness of having children is that they don’t go away.
I want them to—to the park for twelve years
or to college when they are ten—
even the ones who haven’t arrived.

Don’t slide out just yet, give me six more days of silence
to watch 24 episodes in one continuous loop
so I can pretend I’m some kind of white trash, anti-establishment rogue hero
who can save the world.

My wife tells me that I have already saved the world.
Look at your daughter.
Then her airplane, the one she drew orange yellow purple,
takes off and flies around the living room.
Want to get on, Papa?
Damn straight I do,
fly to South America and walk the jungle.

And I know Rachel is right,
at three o’clock in the morning—
that birth is a weird sort of stupid salvation
we can’t flee—
but still, I can’t return my daughter to K-Mart
when she blows a gasket and falls apart into a ball of smoke.
I can’t scream, Stop burning my eyes out
with your four year old
branding iron.

And the one we think is in Rachel’s belly,
what I am supposed to do with that?
It’s a boy, I say and she says,
It’s a boy
and then I know I’m fucked,
can’t even hammer a nail into a 2by4 to save my life,
how the hell am I supposed to teach him
to beat the shit out of muscle zombie bullies
who scare him into corners, lockers,
shopping carts
they then push down a hill?

I’m coming to get you, I scream, I am,
but think I will never get there
because the whole world is one big attack dog schoolyard–
a black, Jew, Puerto Rican calypso drum block party
that won’t stop.
Tell me,
how am I supposed to teach him to dance and be still
all at once?

I know I will wish that he disappear when he bombs his sister’s room
with his little dick
then sticks a tennis ball packed with C-4, pineapple and mud
down the toilet;
have wished it already;
wished that he float out of Rachel’s body
into the positive and negative ions of out there
before he gets right here.

But then, earlier, I saw this fire engine in the driveway
of a fire house
and had this flash-dream that he and I were on it,
blowing the horn, blasting the red machine down the avenue
to the blaze,
to jump off the truck before it stopped,
to run inside the building and grab those trapped kids in the corner room
who couldn’t get away from the grey smoke
as it crept
like lizards
up their burning cheeks.

Matthew Lippman

andermatten's picture

probably charles bukowski

fuckyeah's picture

Milton, Shakespear, Keats, Homer, Dante, Rimbaud, Baudelaire and Dylan Thomas

Ravishing Grimness's picture

I have to go with Adam Darski (Behemoth).A poet helps him out most of the time with the lyrics.He is from Polen as well

Der Todesking's picture

Charles Baudelaire, William Burroughs, E.A. Poe has to be my faves.

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