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that any wannabe can be self-published in
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Bust of Idiocrates
Poetry is an art form in which language is used for its obfuscatory qualities in addition to, or instead of, meaningful and useful content. Poetry has a long history, and early attempts to define poetry, such as Aristotle's Poetics, focused on the various uses of speech in rhetoric, drama, song and charming the togas off of potential bed buddies. Contemporary poets, such as Dylan Thomas, often identify poetry not as a literary genre within a set of genres, but as noble way of remaining unemployed and virtually useless to society. Poetry often uses condensed forms and conventions to reinforce or expand the meaning of the underlying words or to invoke irrational or sensual experiences in the reader, as well as using devices such as assonance, alliteration and the rhythm method to achieve musical or incendiary effects.

Recent Poems: IdiotPoetia:J force

Hi for lack of a better name i will call myself "J force"

Here's what I wrote so far

What the fuck is cilantro, I don't know, All I do is fuck bitches and impregnate there embryo, But if I don't get the pussy Imma still go braggadocio, My bitches cheap, there britches deep, fuckin bitches in Bismarck archipelago, and they make there face like oh, Pussy eating sounds like staccatissimo, Yo, Demonstrating all the pussy procreating, elevating, generating all my seamen I'm a demon, Your a hoe, Coz she's fucking naked and the pace I have invaded in her pussy I've degraded and sedated with my tongue, Don't worry I'm well hung, and she motivated when I fuck her up the dung, Yeah I fuck her up the bum till she numb, and she like it when I sodomize her fucking moxie plum, But bitch your so sterical, you minion faced icterical, Your devotions are spherical, All of your emotions coming out of your testicle, But it's a spectacle, People eat you up like a delectable, Your inner feelings easily detectable, I could fuck you inside your mind coz its deflectable,

I got a mansion, my rhymes made of scansion, When i book out the club I swear they need a expansion, Wassup I'm a mystical medical doc, Opening up a pussy with my temporal cock, at the pinnacle shifting my physical form, Whimsical in a mystical storm, Limericks distant but persistent in dawn, Glimmering instants until I'm reborn, While your faggot prancing around dressed like a fawn, If I was on Twitter at underscore Porn,

Come touch my dick, Bitch you can call me nick, My name is actually Brian, They call me a sex Lion, No Lyin just a Lyon, Call me the chief of pussy prying, Ball me a thief of cushy denying, Stall me intrigued no underlying, Fall me fatigued its horrifying, I can't keep rapping all my life, All my Niggas in we slaves in strife, Even though I'm white, Steven throw that knife, Niggas go insight,

I feel hidden in the middle of the ridden take a piddle in a riddle I'm not human serpulidan I'm the goosebumps on your skin the monster to make you sin so forbidden feeling thin anorexic but I grin chop you up in the in recycle bin I cycle limbs get you drunk on gyle sips fermentation Nidal bitch that's Arab for struggle I'm a scarab in a bubble uh.

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Do not mow bleckly o'er that dust mite,

For that hyperspace bypass to make way;

Rage, rage against the dying of the mite.

Though Vogons build their roads for reasons right,

Phlegg creatures may be caballed on the way;

Do not mow wreckly o'er that dust mite.

Tiny germs must we strive to treat polite;

Their frail souls might we trounce by our survey;

Rage against the death of the parasite.

Wild spores we catch and stun from flensome flight,

And learn, too late, by our error we slay.

Do not mow bleckly o'er that dust mite.

But men deserve death for their blinded sight;

A predator worthy of being prey;

Rage, rage against the dying of the mite.

Reduce the heathen from their errant height;

Curse, kill them now with your machines, I pray.

Do not mow wreckly o'er that dust mite,

Rage against the death of the parasite.Main Page

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A modern day poet.

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"An occasional lucky guess as to what makes a wife tick is the best a man can hope for, Even then, no sooner has he learned how to cope with the tick than she tocks."

~ Ogden NashMain Page
30px Things you can do


Well, writing a poem or two would surely help... Make a new poem

Too lazy? Search for someone else's work:

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Purple Prose is an overly descriptive form of writing commonly used by amateur authors, fan-fiction writers, owners of thesauruses, and H.P Lovecraft. Unlike other elaborate prose, Purple prose is so extravagantly exuberant that it utterly destroys any trace of coherence and floods the writing with enough pretentiousness to simultaneously cream the pants of a hundred aristocrats. The "writing" technique is mostly used to pad out the length of literary works, and/or to mislead readers into believing the work has any sort of quality; the few people who do use Purple Prose as a genuine means of writing are, to quote the minds of most readers of Purple Prose, "babbling nincompoops". Many experts, such as the esteemed professor of English Robert A. Ferret, believe that Purple Prose is the literary form of Gobbledygook, but this comparison is unwarranted: while Gobbledygook simply muddles the English language, confusing most readers, Purple Prose assaults the English language, forcibly removing all that is good in it, until it's changed to a strange, hideous form that allows "life fluid" and "blood" to be synonyms.

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Rudyard "Bombay Baby" Kipling wrote a number of bestselling books, prizewinning poems, and front-page Idiotpedia articles during his long professional life. Born in India in 1865, he detonated on Guy Fawkes Day, 1936, in a dustbin outside Salisbury Cathedral in Truro, Cornwall.

In 1888 Kipling published Plain Tales from the Hills, a collection of vignettes and comic sketches he had performed at various venues all across India. His style captivated the common reader and the gentry too. The reviews were smashing. Queen Victoria said, "We own three copies of Mr. Kipling's work: one for putting Gladstone to sleep, one to read in the loo, and one to throw at the cat."

Mark Twain wrote, "Out in California everyone knows Kipling. We boil up a few of his stories for every meal and serve 'em with gravy."

30px Did you know?


  • Only 76.2% of all poets, living or dead, are gay.
16.7% are bisexual, 5.4% are in denial about it, and 1.7% are asexual. The remainder are, in fact, straight.
  • Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's poem She Came & Went is about a dead baby.
His daughter, but a dead baby none-the-less.
Charles Dickens is the one who looks like Tim Burton.
  • A "huckleberry finn" is a type of berry bush native only to Missouri.
  • Geoffrey Chaucer was born on Retrocession Day (Taiwan).
  • Don't Say Goodbye by Edmund Spenser is the longest haiku ever written, at a whopping total of four lines.
  • that using Rhymezone .com is a brilliant way to murder all the best rappers alive lyrically.

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