Love Poems to my Wife

[M. Nigel Salt]

Yes I know that our
Guests arrive in ten minutes
let's get nekkid now

I know your eyes are
way up there, but I wasn't
looking at your eyes

Inappropriate?
So neighbor lady says but
It's our Goddamn yard

  Please write more of these.

In fact, I would love to see a Project Board subforum opened up for Discordian Love Poetry.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Move over, Songs of Solomon. 

She says I'm getting a beating over the second one in my last post.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Please write more of these.

In fact, I would love to see a Project Board subforum opened up for Discordian Love Poetry.

1.  No problem.  I love sending love poems to my wife via email.

2.  I'd love to see that, too.  Lemme ask the other guys.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Sorry about the car
That will buff out, and I was
Staring at your chest

Mad howling upstairs
The kids are terrified bad
"Anniversary"

Fire engine arrives
My sweetie is really pissed
Rog in kitchen!  BAD!

Blind, I cannot see
Because I threw my eyeballs
At your ass again

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Ganesh in my pants
There are no barriers that strong
Hinduism excuse

So I'm middle-aged
But when she's around tell that
To "other" Roger

My brain works just fine
It's just that I'm not really
Using it right now

I have no idea
No excuse, no plea except
for PILLS HERE! PILLS HERE!

[M. Nigel Salt]

  These are awesome in their horribleness.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

These are awesome in their horribleness.

I am the last Great Romantic.

[stelz]

Blind, I cannot see
Because I threw my eyeballs
At your ass again

In the words of Robert Browning, I praise your "fresh strange music, the affluent language, the exquisite pathos and true new brave thought". 

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Blind, I cannot see
Because I threw my eyeballs
At your ass again

In the words of Robert Browning, I praise your "fresh strange music, the affluent language, the exquisite pathos and true new brave thought". 

I'm working on an epic right now.  Working title is "Where the fuck are my pants?  Wait.  No.  I don't care."

[stelz]

Blind, I cannot see
Because I threw my eyeballs
At your ass again

In the words of Robert Browning, I praise your "fresh strange music, the affluent language, the exquisite pathos and true new brave thought". 

I'm working on an epic right now.  Working title is "Where the fuck are my pants?  Wait.  No.  I don't care."

Such beauty as we are almost afraid to accept. 

[Luna]

Tears.  I swear, there are tears in my eyes. 

[M. Nigel Salt]

Blind, I cannot see
Because I threw my eyeballs
At your ass again

In the words of Robert Browning, I praise your "fresh strange music, the affluent language, the exquisite pathos and true new brave thought". 

I'm working on an epic right now.  Working title is "Where the fuck are my pants?  Wait.  No.  I don't care."

This sounds like a Great Work.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Blind, I cannot see
Because I threw my eyeballs
At your ass again

In the words of Robert Browning, I praise your "fresh strange music, the affluent language, the exquisite pathos and true new brave thought". 

I'm working on an epic right now.  Working title is "Where the fuck are my pants?  Wait.  No.  I don't care."

This sounds like a Great Work.

What makes it particularly awesome is that I am a HORRIBLE poet.  No shit.  I'm talking the fetal-alcohol syndrome baby of James McGonnagal and Joyce Kilmer, here.  Because the static and horrible music that's going through my head while I write it exists only for me.  I'm the Erich Zahn of poetry.

[stelz]

This needs to go on that poetry site.

Nah.

TOO GOOD.

[M. Nigel Salt]

Blind, I cannot see
Because I threw my eyeballs
At your ass again

In the words of Robert Browning, I praise your "fresh strange music, the affluent language, the exquisite pathos and true new brave thought". 

I'm working on an epic right now.  Working title is "Where the fuck are my pants?  Wait.  No.  I don't care."

This sounds like a Great Work.

What makes it particularly awesome is that I am a HORRIBLE poet.  No shit.  I'm talking the fetal-alcohol syndrome baby of James McGonnagal and Joyce Kilmer, here.  Because the static and horrible music that's going through my head while I write it exists only for me.  I'm the Erich Zahn of poetry.

Yes, EXACTLY.