The Goth-O-Matic(TM) Poetry Generator
No doubt whilst wandering your dark and tormented way across the vast and untamed Internet wilderness, you've encountered your share of equally dark and tormented collections of poetry by gothic souls, displaying their tattered vulnerabilities for all to read.
No doubt whilst wandering your dark and tormented way across the vast and untamed Internet wilderness, you've encountered your share of equally dark and tormented collections of poetry by gothic souls, displaying their tattered vulnerabilities for all to read.
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Bunthorne: "Certainly. Broken-hearted and desolate, I go." (Recites.)
"Oh, to be wafted away,
From this black Aceldama of sorrow,
Where the dust of an earthy to-day
Is the earth of a dusty to-morrow!
It is a little thing of my own. I call it "Heart Foam". I shall not publish it. Farewell! Patience, Patience, farewell!"
Exit Bunthorne.
"Razors pain you; Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you; And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful; Nooses give;
Gas smells awful; You might as well live."
- Dorothy Parker
DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
-- John Donne
When my grave is broken up again
Some second guest to entertain
(For graves have learned that woman-head
To be to more than one a bed),
And he that digs it, spies
A bracelet of bright hair about the bone,
Will he not let'us alone,
And think that there a loving couple lies,
Who thought that this device might be some way
To make their souls, at the last busy day,
Meet at this grave, and make a little stay?
If this fall in a time, or land,
Where mis-devotion doth command,
Then he that digs us up, will bring
Us to the Bishop and the King,
To make us relics; then
Thou shalt be'a Mary Magdalen, and I
A something else thereby;
All women shall adore us, and some men;
And since at such time, miracles are sought,
I would have that age by this paper taught
What miracles we harmless lovers wrought.
First, we loved well and faithfully,
Yet knew not what we loved, nor why,
Difference of sex no more we knew,
Than our guardian angels do;
Coming and going, we
Perchance might kiss, but not between those meals;
Our hands ne'er touched the seals,
Which nature, injured by late law, sets free:
These miracles we did; but now, alas,
All measure and all language I should pass,
Should I tell what a miracle she was.
- John Donne
Did you ever think when a hearse goes by
That you might be the next to die
They wrap you up in a bloody sheet
And throw you in about six feet
You're okay for about a week
Unless your casket springs a leak
The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out
The worms play pinochle on your snout
Your liver turns a lusty green
Your guts squirt out like shaving cream
You wrap it up in a piece of bread
And that's what you eat when you are dead. - American children's song, c. 20th Century
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