hee. i got terza rima or this one, which i like better

[epilo]

Ottava rima? Me? That can't be right!
   Too frivolous? But tut, there's no such thing!
Let others ponder thoughts of wrong and right,
   Or sit and think how much they love the spring;
I'd rather spend my time in gleeful spite,
   Or maybe laugh, or maybe sit and sing.
Besides, it might be fun to be inspiring -
But surely it would get so very tiring.

Comments

[vaguelyweird]

i got that too, originally, but i retook, and got my secondary as primary.

[ombilic_des]

If kittens chose to test their souls against
The earnest genius of the Internet
(Some foul fool who repeats the same words wrenched
In different fashions just so she can set
Them into something like the flexed and tensed
Swells of sweet silly bliss without regret
Flowing like wat'r reflected from a faucet
To pounce on the dry soul's hung-over tête,)
Their heads would be too high for bytes to pet.

[ombilic_des]

It's silly, but it swells the pulse to song
Like kittens leaping, frollicking along
Almost the way warm wetness clasps a thong
That's resonating to the rhythm's wrong
And evil verses (more reflective gong
Than any bodhisattva's dreams of bhang):
And even sillier when we prolong
The rhyming sounds by making the ding-dong
Of deux into the unity of one!

(This time I counted right; we cannot all
Be math majors,---or concentrators,---or crawl
Along the shallow ledges of the literal
When our souls swell and pulse like clitoral
Leapings of warmth above the dreams that Fall
Through sheets' abysses and through every wall
And feathered to pillow to soar past the thrall
Of anything beyond the purest Poesy's gall.)

[ombilic_des]

You should hear me improvise complex traditional verse forms sometime. With a British accent even the English agree is better than almost anything "authentic" beyond pure poetry's sweet flow. (But only if you promise not to get too turned on. Or dye your hair red. And wear a cuter mask. Honestly, I think it's gross that you hooked up with Eliot, that fucker is a proud self-proclaimed sociopath who while president invented and spread the completely false rumor that I'm a schizophrenic necrophiliac---while I imitate Byron in drinking wine out of that real skull that I left in the bar, I'm sure as hell too thick-headed to do it with the hole where the spinal chord enters the cranium, as he so awfully alleged.)

Decided to join Zete one night when I was drunkenly staring into the black abyss of Wile E. Coyote's muraled mouth and I suddenly gained the ability to improvise rhymed alexandrines. Easier than speaking normally, in fact....

Recently I've been into composing iambic pentameter quintuplets.