HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems

I have kind of been toying with a poem about the search by 
captain douglas o'toole for the cult of o'tooles.  I have not
made much progress as my bile has been diverted into my spleen 
of late.  Likely I will never even finish it, unless by
popular acclaim, which is about as likely as a protestant pope.

here is the little I wrote before I gave up writing poetry as
a foul and pernicious habit:  


I.

De Douglas O'Toole,
he a bit of a'foole
as he take up dem
daggar and lance.

Lakes of fire be his eyes
but he be mild-mannered (disguised?)
He set to de road to have him his fill
of exquisite thrill,
deliquescent romances.

       A little Quixote
       and Truman Capote:
       a dollop of Wile E. Coyote,
       bewrapped in spiritual raiment
       for your entertainment,
       resembling the indomitable Beezelbub Jones,
       bespitted with far too much marrow
       in multitude narrow, and too human, bones.

II.

   !An honor guard of sixteen
    fresh-plastic, full-warrant
    bloodstorm troopers protects
    the hapless lad's hopless exist
    ence.  No will to resist,
    he la(ugh)ingly calls 
    them his bunny brigade
    and deccoes their
    steel-horned proximity heads (tm)
    with garlands of violets and
    big floppy ears!

Oh, de bloodstorm troopers, dey have no fear.
Bloodstorm troopers, dey have dem gold eyes,
a constant gazeglaze with dem vigilant rays
(of dat infra and ultra) and constantly probing 
for something to squish.

      The Douglas feared fiercely that they'd get their wish.
      The troopers, they chanted electronic-lush lust melodies:

   !vector
    ordinance enable
    counterforce (author)ized
    (term)ination sequence!


      Douglas named them all gridleys (1-16).
      Pure.
      Pristine.
      Plastobscene.

III.

On a day filled with portent, 
dis demented commander with leaprous deportment
set off to find de cult of O'tooles.









ppffffft..
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: sara@trauma.rn.com (Sara Gordon)
Subject: stream
Summary: so long and thanks for all the viruses.
Keywords: DAv
Organization: Gator Conferencing Systems - 219-289-0777 - 6 lines
Date: Fri, 24 Jul 1992 02:34:12 GMT




lets be honest of all this nonsense
we call life and cyberspace
or kibberspace depending on where we live
or think we do..
 
always looking for some good thing, we are
on the road, running them all to home
love, kisses, xoxoxoxoxo, love, love, and fishes
 
 
they say 'i want you because '
and have their list of reasons
         their list of seasons
         their list of treasons
 
and if they are fortunate they wont go to the prison
made for treasonous offenders
treasoners, poisoners, cloissoners,
coiffures unwashed and in their eyes
over their terminals too long until they
have that slightly odd smell of unwashed things.
 
our prisons be our memories
be is a verb
love is a noun
requiring no activity on the part of anyone.
 
benedetti said 'do the act and the emotion will follow'
damn straight.
 

-- 

_________________________________________________________________________
 "Blessed is she who expects nothing, for she shall not be disappointed"
____________________________sara@gator.rn.com____________________________
From: sheila@ccwf.cc.utexas.edu (sheila)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: the over...Re: <.,.,.>
Date: 31 Jul 92 14:30:33 GMT
Organization: The University of Texas at Austin, Austin TX

In article <1992Jul28.175605.12993@nmsu.edu> sabbott@nmsu.edu (SDA) writes:
>
>
>my under-brain speaks

the under brain! the over brain!
the id the ego the super ego
the super id!

(I'm not flaming. I'm being silly. It's fun. I was wondering
why this phrase sounded familiar. under-brain. It reminded me
of overman. Then the classification reminded me of teasing
one night when we decided to construct a super-id.)

I'm feeling perverse. I did so much want to hear the first 45 seconds
or so of The Wall, and then have one of the Marsalis guys come in
with some sax notes. I have a cd for both, I tried to mix them together
on a tape with no luck. Just don't have the equipment for it.
Mixing would be fun. Wish I still had access to a radio station 

Here is my excuse for sharing my chatty mood with r.a.p - I'm in
high spirits and about to be married. I want to babble all over the
place. Much fun.

Oh, last nigh I saw a sneak preview of Howard's End. A good movie. sad.
I had started the book, but set it down. Now I have picked it up again.
I didn't have incredible expectations of this movie because I had jsut
watched Room With a View, also based on a novel by E M Forster. It was
nice, and much better than Cape Fear, I saw sections of Cape Fear the 
night before and thought it was so silly that I left the room, and rented
Room With a View as an atedote. Antedote it is. Good movie, but I thought
it was somewhat shallow. Not entirely shallow, just a little dim. I am
not sure what I thought exactly so I shouldn't go on babbling like this.
Actually I am now enamoured of Helana Carter, the actress who plays Helen. She
is so beautiful and she talks wonderfully. 

um...obPoetry? well, um...Helen and her sister Meg like poetry, does that
count?
I think the house was too beautiful to be real. Could there actually
exist places like that? Wouldn't you cry to walk through such a place?
Wouldn't you fall to the ground breathless? I guess maybe you would
fall to the ground and laugh or smile and roll around.

I'm quiet mystified by all the characters in the movie, I will hurry
up and finish the book to see if E M Forster gives their characters away.
I want so much to find out about Ruth Wilcox. About everyone.

I guess I really should mention more poetry. Bad Bad for me to be so
noisy. 
-- 
stark raving sane!   sheila@ccwf.cc.utexas.edu
From: root@bing.UUCP (Administrator)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: my brother
Date: 25 Jul 92 13:50:10 GMT
Organization: Bing's Rubber Chicken Factory -- "Our clucks are boneless."

my brother hears voices in his head
my brother who went to Yale.
my brother whose dream it was to
win the Pulitzer someday.

now he sits in a mental ward
affraid to take baths because
he might get AIDS from the water.
yet he washes his hands at least
ten times a day.
and the demons in his head has to be
quieted with large quantities of
strange named drugs i cannot fathom

i look at him somedays
his mind is as broken as my body
brother mine--
only if we could join forces
you'd give me your body
i'd give you my mind
and what would result would be
one damn good person.

July 25, 1992 for my brother Ho. I love you, guy.
Bing

--
Bing H Bang                                  +---------------------------+
Senior Systems Analyst                       | This is my home computer. |
National Data Corporation, Atlanta, GA       | I do not speak for NDC.   |
uucp: gatech!warlord!bing!root               +---------------------------+
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: boutell@isis.cshl.org (Tom Boutell)
Subject: TB: POEM: After She
Originator: boutell@athena
Organization: Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory
Date: Thu, 23 Jul 92 20:07:05 GMT

After She
---------

After she
Amazed him with
Simple kindess energetically expressed,

He whispered
Quietly to her,
Complimentary sweet hotel nothings,

Pillowtop gratis.
And precisely because
They were for once unneeded,

Meant them,
Every nothing entirely,
Every last superlative word.

-T

-- 
My return address now works!
Believe it or not there is life after college. At least if you live
near NYC.
From: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au (Bunweasel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Adventure
Date: 25 Jul 92 12:53:07 GMT
Reply-To: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au
Organization: Department of Computer Science, The University of Queensland

--> This is a flame directed at "Cecil Williams". If you have
--> better things to do than read flames, please skip over it.

In article 2456@tau-ceti.isc-br.com, cecilw@access.isc-br.com (Cecil Williams) writes:
> root@bing.UUCP (Administrator) writes:
>> (Barclay Blanchard) writes:
>>> I like Japanese, French, Italian, Chinese,
>>> Cuban, Thai, Indian, Greek, and Vietnamese food
>>> and don't like Korean, Ethiopian, Mexican,
>>                 ^^^^^^^
>>As a full blooded Korean, I can tell you that Korean food is an
>>acquired taste that requires a fair amount of acquiring.  But once
>>acquired, it is hard to do without.
>>> 
>>> Barclay Blanchard
>>Bing H Bang                              

>Welll, I don't know;
>I took to Seoul food right away. 
>If you like tobasco and sauerkraut

It's your sort what makes this world a less
pleasant place to be.

>you'll probably take to 
>the kimchee(sp?) like a
>giant panda to bamboo...  
>Hey Bing, What's the name 
>of that silly old song thats 
>got your name in it? 

Oh, please stop. Has that nasty "Arse Whiffed" been giving
you lessons on how to write offensive postings?

>You know, the one that goes:
>[...]

I was hoping to forget.

Until now r.a.p was blissfully free of racist
pains-in-the-bum like your yourself.
No, it wasn't funny.

>Thanks to RICHH for his recent inspiration of today's keywords.
He breathed them?

>Cecil

Fuck off.

-m.

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: marek@msel.unh.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Subject: for kate bush, on your 34th birthday / Marek
Originator: marek@mermaid.msel.unh.edu
Organization: UNH Marine Systems Engineering Laboratory
Date: Thu, 30 Jul 1992 22:50:21 GMT


		for kate bush, on your 34th birthday
		-------------------------------------------------------------
 
		today, on your birthday, without knowing it
		we feasted for you -- in the warm room.
		 
		it was a way to say goodbye -- in the sensual world.
		every time it rains, you're here in my head.
		 
		today, you are thirty four -- my lionheart
		and i have lost you so many times now
		like an arrow shot into the killer storm.
		 
		out in the garden there's half of a heaven.
		not a soul on the ice.
		 
		across the weather, across the elements,
		across the water
		all we ever look for -- a great big hug.
 
 
			Marek Lugowski
			30 July 1992
			Cincinnati, Ohio
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jchien@leland.Stanford.EDU (Jennifer Crystal Fang-Chien)
Subject: The cerulean ocean
Organization: The Land of Earthquakes (Southern Cal)
Date: Tue, 21 Jul 92 06:46:25 GMT


	[Ok, so I lied, here is a poem, but written more out
of self-therapy.]


The cerulean ocean


The sweet-tasting cerulean ocean is calling.
     You send psychologists, faith healers, priests, relatives, and
friends to chase me, walking towards the shimmering
rippling waters.  They're pulling me back, saving me from my
doom, or so they say.
	Their arms are tatooed with ineffectual sayings like, 
'your unresolved anger towards your father continues your conflict',
'think positively', 'pray and have faith in God', 'things aren't that
bad', 'just don't think about it'...
	You don't understand.  	When you dive several hundred meters below
the surface, you feel the waters still, floating your heavy arms and legs;
your hair spreads out like seaweed, and there is silence -- serenity, 
the peace of the oceanic womb.  
	The psychologists say I'm 'emotionally disturbed' for wanting
this.  Compare the cerulean ocean depths, to your 'sane' city pavement
covering every living square inch of the earth, homeless urchins standing
at street corners with 'will work for food' signs, a young girl raped
and murdered between two apartments with tenents leaning out to watch...
	These are too general.  The cerulean ocean calls me from
my ex-lover's manic-depressive violence (the front door he slammed 
once on my tender freshly razored wrists, then tried to throw himself 
headfirst into the cerulean comfort), from his attempt to reconcile (still
self-cenertered as he always is) because his conscience needs the words 
from me like a Goddess to quell the guilt from his now-'well adjusted' life; 
from the daily binges of any food that I don't need physically (serving 
as a balm to depression), from the self-disgust arising from being media-fed 
too many Cosmopolitan women who serves as Christs in aiming for 
emulation, from the ebbing of will like a moon-pulled tide far too low 
and humanly impossible to alter that washes me out to the refridgerator 
(the ocean working subtle destruction, calling me), from the Satanic
white scale gauging my success like a vampire who bites only those 
full of blood (only this watches for adipose tissue); from these and 
too many more to mention.
	Let the white-foam waves soothe my bare feet.  Don't worry,
I won't enter the deeper waters.  I feel the connections: the kitchen
dishes to be washed, the little boy at the library asking for change to
call his parents, a friend agonizing over a luckless pursuit of a
woman, those I have yet to touch, things I have yet to learn and to
do...
	The cerulean ocean will wait, calling.  We will all be swept
into its deep serenity, eventually.  Your time will come.
	My time has passed; I am a child born of the cerulean womb.


	




Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: S3679988@deimos.ucc.umass.edu (S3679988)
Subject: Re: FAQ?
Organization: University of Massachusetts at Amherst
Date: Mon, 27 Jul 1992 20:56:57 GMT
X-News-Reader: VMS NEWS 1.20

> 
>   to
>     be
>       flamed
>             by
>               the
>                  sun
>     I write
> 
>   and not just any fire
> 
>   so far, I've not succeeded
> 
>   maybe we're all
> 
>   helionauts
> 
> 
> 
> 
>      -EJC 
> 
>  (hope this answers your questions)
> 

(heh)

To be singed by fire is a nasty trick
to you i use the ember
 as 
    a 
      wick.
From: melynda@titipu.meta.com (Melynda Reid)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: for sheila---on colour
Date: 29 Jul 92 15:14:10 GMT
Reply-To: melynda@titipu.meta.com (Melynda Reid)
Organization: Paleolithic Refugia
X-Mailer: uAccess - Macintosh Release: 1.9b1

sheila wrote:
??   I will wonder how to make color in a picture like light on a color.
??   How would you paint sunlight on grass? just add white? It is so
??   mysterious. 
??   I will wonder about shades and how to show them.
??   do you add black or white? is that it?

to paint sunlight on grass i use hansa yellow diluted with transparent medium.
i either wash it on as a veil or i dot it on in subtle dashes and drips. plus
i do not mix my greens on the palette but instead i juxtapose yellows and
blues so that the eye mixes the greens perceptually.

to paint shades look at the purples which alight on blacks. shadow areas can
contain many bright patches of colour which refer to the surroundings much
like a mirror. delacroix painted his shadows violet. i paint my shadows burnt
umber and ultramarine blue and cobalt violet and cobalt blue with some hints
of red.

i do not use white or black to mix colours. white tends to blue out colours
and black in oils is too fat to use as an undercolour plus it punctures the
surface of the canvas visually violating the illusion of a grounded surface.
                          melynda posting as a visual artist
                          who painted in oils in 1958 and
                          who continues to use brushes and
                          techniques learned then

melynda reid   who wears hats but does not type caps
  eel:   melynda@titipu.meta.com  or  nosc.mil!titipu.meta.com!melynda
  snail: p o box 378 greensboro, florida 32330
From: denelsbe@washington.cs.unc.edu (Kevbo)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: In A Taco Bell
Date: 23 Jul 92 00:57:46 GMT


		In A Taco Bell

	A toddler marches to the booth, brown plastic
	childseat held proudly in front of him;
	he will use it in a moment and his father
	will not have to help him.  I eat here
	because I'm on a budget, but I'll never
	be as economical as that kid;
	there are some things you just can't skimp on.
	(And besides, this chicken fajita is good!)

---------
Kev @ UNC
7/22/92

-- 
|| +------------------+  With the fabric of reality shredding all around him,
||-| Kev @ UNC        |  the Headless Horseman threw the banana at Ichabod
||-| Master Poetaster |  Crane.
|| +------------------+                      -- from a Sentence Game
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ieeug470@Eagle.oscs.montana.edu
Subject: Re: Author of quote needed ..
Reply-To: ieeug470@Eagle.oscs.montana.edu
Organization: MSU
Distribution: na
Date: Wed, 29 Jul 1992 17:37:16 GMT

In article <1992Jul28.140043.20084@rtsg.mot.com>, gatchall@rtsg.mot.com (Scott W. Gatchall) writes:
SCOTT, 

That poem is called "Do not Go Gentle into That Good Night" by 
Dylan Thomas.  It is as follows...

Do Not Go Gentle
into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

	--Dylan Thomas










Hope that twas it...


Michael the morbid....

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Cut off my head, eat my brains: know my pains....
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
From: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au (Bunweasel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Robert Loves Jenny
Date: 20 Jul 92 11:32:04 GMT
Reply-To: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au
Organization: Department of Computer Science, The University of Queensland

> but I do need a soap sponsor...

I find the soap sponsors in the Gents' here
never work properly. The stuff kind of curlicues
out the sides of the nozzle and deposits a dead
yellowish worm up your wrist, and to wash it off
you have to squat down to the level of the sink
so as to get your arm at the right angle and then
reach over with the other arm to hold the spring-
-loaded tap on while it runs brownish water at
just about freezing point over the slimy area not
effectively washing it off but rapidly chilling
the blood going into your hand to the point where
you're not quite sure what your fingers are doing
and meanwhile some thug with tatts has decided to
make an entrance by heaving open the door slamming
it firmly onto your butt so you fall forward, your
head impacting hard into the next sink while your
wrist scrapes across the burrs on the spout of
tap so your wrist is bleeding, you're lying on
the floor covering your head and blithering like
a moron and the guy picks you up, he's a bouncer,
see, and he thinks you might have been playing
with razor blades, he picks you up, slaps you
about the face for your own good throws open
the door again accidentally clouting you across
the face with the edge as it opens, throws you
out, grab you by the back of the neck, picks
you up again, looks you square in the eyes and
says "Life's too fucking precious, mate."

..umm.   oh that's not a sponsor is it. oh.

(sorry)

			-- Michael Norris
From: ieeug470@Eagle.oscs.montana.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: UNTITLED...
Date: 24 Jul 92 17:36:01 GMT
Reply-To: ieeug470@Eagle.oscs.montana.edu
Organization: MSU


	The faceless assassin 
	Am I.

My cross-hairs 
Float
Across the masses.
Her head,
Slight pressure,
Shoulder nudge,
Silent puff of smoke.
I have power.

	The nameless killer
	Am I.

My blade,
Ice.
Stalking silent
From behind
Jarring jab
The quiet gasp.
Seemingly slow 
Collapse.
I walk on.

	The fluid liquidator 
	Am I.

My swords swipe,
Parry.
Bloody blades
Piroette
One high, one low
High slice stopped.
Low thrust through,
Hilt deep.
I know victory.

	The infactuated lover
	Am I.

My arms around her,
Warmth.
Her body
Mine.
Consuming hunger,
Unsatiable appetite,
Her empty eyes.
She slits my throat.







Could ya all help me with a title for this??
(maybe a bit 'o C&C)??







Michael...

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Only when you have to hold onto the grass to keep from falling off the earth
are you drunk enough to enjoy life.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
From: Ralph.Cherubini@mdf.FidoNet.Org (Ralph Cherubini)
Sender: uucp@mdf.FidoNet.Org
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem--After all is did and done
Date: 29 Jul 92 14:59:47 EST

                       After all is did and done
 
After all is did and done
what stays with me
as she sleeps beside me
the sleep of worn-out lovers
is acceptance
not approval
just how glad
I am to accept what she is
each moment
to have her come into my consciousness
and wave it around
stir it with her spirit
cook it with her laughter
gentle it with her sweet arms
it is just gladness
at the grace of her love
She
my loverfriend
She
the best I ever had...


 * Origin: Connect America #5, Austin, Tx, 512-459-3351 (1:382/10.0)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: From a distance
From: ndliles@miavx1.acs.muohio.edu
Date: 21 Jul 92 08:29:23 -0500
Organization: Miami University Academic Computer Service"

	From a Distance

	I heard the song today.
	Only in my head
	but I heard it
	just the same.

	It was a symbol,
	a mark,
	a signpost 
	in a millinium.

	From a float 
	in a parade
	Judy Collins
	gave it to me.
	I gave it shelter
	and warmth
	and from it
	life sprang forth.
	It grew within me.

	Only a song
	marking time in between.
	It was first
	and last,
	begining
	and end.

	Part of it
	died today.
	Now I hold the candle
	and place cloth
	on my head.
	From a distance
	I watch in silence.
	No longer can I
	bear to listen.

		nd
From: daq@hpfcso.FC.HP.COM (Doug Quarnstrom)
Date: Tue, 21 Jul 1992 14:37:57 GMT
Subject: Re: Poem--You will never leave me
Organization: Hewlett-Packard, Fort Collins, CO, USA
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems

In rec.arts.poems, root@bing.UUCP (Administrator) writes:

> daq@hpfcso.FC.HP.COM (Doug Quarnstrom) writes:
> > In rec.arts.poems, ieeug470@Eagle.oscs.montana.edu writes:
> > 
> > Absolutely nothing is wrong with it as long as you do not try
> > to delude yourself into thinking and suggesting that it is art.
> > 
> But Doug, by saying this aren't you the one who is deluded?
> I mean, unless of course, you _really_ do have the right and the
> capacity to decide what is art for everyone in this news group...

Maybe I am deluded, but note that I did not say that I was 
deciding what art was.  I was suggesting that others not delude
themselves.  This leaves it a completely personal judgement.

Also, this is an anarchy, so I have every right to post my opinion
on the subject as you or anyone else does.  This need not 
be determinative of your behavior unless you are incredibly 
sensitive.

doug
From: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au (Bunweasel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: not even well-written letters...
Date: 22 Jul 92 21:55:12 GMT
Reply-To: michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au
Organization: Department of Computer Science, The University of Queensland

> 	or the empty postponement of this poem 

No, no, no. You can't get that far and just give up on the very last line.

(gosh, what a lot of short words all in a row. And this too.)

I say take it back and give us a different last line. Harrumph.

-m.
From: strickl@athena.cs.uga.edu (Skip Strickland)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: 8
Date: 25 Jul 92 21:19:09 GMT
Distribution: na
Organization: University of Georgia, Athens

Amidst the heavy laden mist of confusion
In catacombs where demons abide
Entombed in the darkened crypt of regret
Lay all that I might be
:wq

q!
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems