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 Post subject: George Barker
PostPosted: 02/12/09 3:42 am • # 1 
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Joined: 01/20/09
Posts: 8188
Perhaps my favorite poet. I may add little bits here as time permits.

Since the Age of Reason's seven
And most of one's friends over eight,
Therefore they're resonable? Even
Sensible Stearns or simpleton Stephen
Wouldn't claim that. I contemplate
A world which, at crucial instants,
Surrenders to adulterant infants
The adult onus to think straight.


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 Post subject: George Barker
PostPosted: 02/12/09 4:00 am • # 2 
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Joined: 01/20/09
Posts: 8188
Today, recovering from influenza
I begin, having nothing worse to do
This autobiography that ends a
Half of my life I'm glad I'm through.
O Love, what a bloody hullaballoo
I look back at, shaken and sober
When that intemperate life I view
From this intemperate October

To nineteen hundred and forty-seven
I pay the deepest of respects,
For during this year I was given
Some insight into the other sex.
I was a victim, till forty-six
Of the rosy bed with bitches in it;
But now, in spite of all pretexts
I never sleep a single minute.

O fellow sailor on the tossing sea,
O fleeting virgin in the night
O privates, general in lechery,
Shun, shun the bedroom like a blight:
Evade, O amorous acolyte,
That pillow where your heart you bury-
For if the thing was stood upright
It would become a cemetary.

I start with this apostrophe
To all apostles of true love:
With your devotion visit me,
Give me the glory of the dove
That dies of dereliction. Give
True love to me, true love to me,
And in two shakes I will prove
It's false to you and false to me.

Bright spawner on your sandbank dwell
Coldblooded as a plumber's pipe-
The procreatory ocean swell
Warming, till they're over ripe,
The cockles of your cold heart, will
Teach us true love can instil
Temperature into any type.

Does not the oyster in its bed
Open a yearning yoni when
The full moon passes over head
Feeling for pearls? O nothing, then,
Too low a form of life is, when
Love, abandoning the cloister,
Can animate the bedded oyster,
The spawning tiddler, and men.

Thus all of us, the pig and prince,
The priest and the psychiatrist,
Owe everything to true love, since
How the devil could we exist
If our parents had never kissed?
All biographies, therefore,
-No matter what else they envince-
Open, like prisons, with adore.

Remember, when you love another,
Who demonstrably is a bitch,
Even Venus had a mother
Whose love, like a silent aitch,
Incepted your erotic itch.
Love, love has the longest history,
For we can tell an ape his father
Begot him on a mystery.

******to be continued********


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