Poem by Karl Marx

[La Comédie Noire]

To My Neighbour Across the Street

She stares at me from over yonder
God, I can't stand it any longer.
A little man, a yellow house,
A woman lank and nauseous.
Since Inspiration could take flight,
I'd better pull the blind down--tight.




Hahaha what?

[Weezer]

"The public's shoving, unafraid of bruises!
Some Talma there, perhaps, home of the Muses!"
Please, friend, sharp weapons don't attract.
It's comedy--by apes that act.

At ease, I watched the apes put on
Their show. And it was good clean fun.
So natural--just one thing missing,
Which was, to use the walls for p--.

Suddenly, somebody plucked my cloak.
"Really, that was a peculiar joke!
A young girl swooned at what she saw,
Flew on a monkey's breast and claws.
She batted her eyes, said timidly:
'O depths of exquisite agony!
O harmony! Delicious sorrow!
That monkey thrills me to the marrow!
I feel as if I were magnetised,
The ape played me; I loved him, hypnotised.
O monkey, speak, for I'm bewitched by you!
I just can't breathe, my head is spinning, too!"

[Amphictyonis]

"" Do you compose verse, Inspector, and keep it under your pillow?"

[Pretty Flaco]

I believe Marx once said,


I could not, would not, in a house.
I would not, could not, with a mouse.
I would not eat them with a fox.
I would not eat them in a box.
I would not eat them here or there.
I would not eat them anywhere.
I would not eat green eggs and ham.
I do not like them, Sam-I-am.

[scarletghoul]

lol marx was only a youngster when he wrote pomes. engels done some too, which were slightly better imho.

[Os Cangaceiros]

Poetry seems to be an artform that 99% of the world sucks at, I've found.

[fa2991]

Poetry seems to be an artform that 99% of the world sucks at, I've found.

Sounds like a gross underestimate to me.

[ZeroNowhere]

To My Father:

Creator Spirit uncreated
Sails on fleet waves far away,
Worlds heave, Lives are generated,
His Eye spans Eternity.
All inspiriting reigns his Countenance;
In its burning magic, Forms condense.

Voids pulsate and Ages roll,
Deep in prayer before his Face;
Spheres resound and Sea-Floods swell,
Golden Stars ride on apace;
Fatherhead in blessing gives the sign,
And the All is bathed in Light divine.

In bounds self-perceived, the Eternal
Silent moves, reflectively,
Until holy Thought primordial
Dons Forms, Words of Poetry.
Then, like Thunder-lyres from far away
Like prescient Creation's Jubilee:

"Gentler shine the floating stars,
Worlds in primal Rock now rest;
O my Spirit's images,
Be by Spirit new embraced;
When to you the heaving bosoms move,
Be revealed in piety and love.

"Be unlocked only to Love;
Eternity's eternal seat,
As to you I gently gave,
Hurl you my Soul's lightning out.
'Harmony alone its like may find,
Only Soul another Soul may bind.'

Out of me your Spirits burn
Into Forms of lofty meaning;
To the Maker you return,
Images no more remaining,
By Man's look of Love ringed burningly,
You in him dissolved, and he in me."

On Pustkuchen:

1

Schiller, thinks he, had been less of a bore
If only he'd read the Bible more.
One could have nothing but praise for The Bell
If it featured the Resurrection as well,
Or told how, on a little ass,
Christ into the town did pass;
While David's defeat of the Philistine
Would have added something to Wallenstein.

2

Goethe can give the ladies a fright,
For elderly women he's not quite right.
He understood Nature, but this is the quarrel,
He wouldn't round Nature off with a moral.
He should have got Luther's doctrine off pat
And made up his poetry out of that.
He had beautiful thoughts, if sometimes odd,
But omitted to mention--"Made by God"

3

Extremely strange is this desire
To elevate Goethe higher and higher.
How low in actual fact his reach-
Did he ever give us a sermon to preach?
Show me in Goethe solid ground
For Peasant or Pedagogue to expound.
Such a genius marked with the stamp of the Lord
That a sum in arithmetic had him floored.

4

Hear Faust in the full authentic version;
The Poet's account is sheer perversion.
Faust was up to his ears in debts,
Was dissolute, played at cards for bets.
No offer of help from above was extended,
So he wanted it all ignominiously ended.
But was overwhelmed by a fearful sensation
Of Hell and the anguish of desperation.
He then devoted due reflection
To Knowledge, Deed, Life, Death, and Perdition;
And on these topics had much to say
In a darkly mystical sort of way.
Couldn't the Poet have managed to tell
How debts lead man to the Devil and Hell.
Who loses his credit may well conceivably
Forfeit redemption quite irretrievably.

5

Since Faust at Easter had the gall
To think, why trouble the Devil at all?
Who dares to think on Easter Day
Is doomed to Hell-fire anyway.

6

Credibility too is defied.
The Police would soon have had enough!
They'd surely have had him clapped inside
For running up debts and making off!

7

Vice alone could elevate Faust,
Who really loved himself the most.
God and the World he dared to doubt,
Moses thought they'd both worked out.
Silly young Gretchen had to adore him
Instead of getting his conscience to gnaw him,
Telling him he was the Devil's prey,
And the Day of Judgment was well on the way.

8

There's use for the "Beautiful Soul" It's simple:
Just trim it with specs and a nun's wimple.
"What God hath done is right well done,"
Thus the true Poet hath begun.

Evening Stroll:

"Why gaze you towards the cliff-wail there,
What do you softly sigh?"
"The sun sinks glowing through the air,
Kissing the cliff good-bye.

"And this before you've never seen
The sun's orb slowly scale
The morning sky, and then from noon
Sink down into the vale?"

"Indeed I have, indeed that glow
In crimson folds throbbed burning,
Until its Eye, being loth to go,
Dwelt on her in its yearning.

"We walked in peace. By her footfall
The echoing cliffs were captured.
The light wind gently kissed her shawl,
Soft spoke her eyes, enraptured.

"And sick with love, I lisped a-sighing;
She trembled, rosy red.
I pressed her heart, down sank the dying
Sun, star-cosseted.

"That draws me to the cliff-wall there,
That's what I softly sigh.
She waves far off as evening fire,
She bows as from on high."

In summary, Karl Marx is better than you.


The Viennese Ape Theatre in BerlinYeah, that one's brilliant.

Also:


Now follows, as we promised in the previous chapter, the proof that the aforesaid sum of 25 talers is the personal property of the dear Lord.

They are without a master! Sublime thought, no mortal power owns them, yet the lofty power that sails above the clouds embraces the All, including therefore the aforesaid 25 talers; with its wings woven from day and night, from sun and stars, from towering mountains and endless sands, which resound as with harmonies and the rushing of the waterfall, it brushes where no mortal hand can reach, including therefore the aforesaid 25 talers, and--but I can say no more, my inmost being is stirred, I contemplate the All and myself and the aforesaid 25 talers, what substance in these three words, their standpoint is infinity, their tinkle is angelic music, they recall the Last Judgment and the state exchequer, for -- it was Grethe, the cook, whom Scorpion, stirred by the tales of his friend Felix, carried away by his flame-winged melody, overpowered by his vigorous youthful emotion, presses to his heart, sensing a fairy within her.
Marx vs. Dunsany.