jumpingjacktrash:

simonalkenmayer:

theshitpostcalligrapher:

kiranovember:

wouldthatcreationhadformedmeman:

nobodybetterhavethisoneoriswear:

hopelessromanticinspace:

cryoverkiltmilk:

squeeful:

ineptshieldmaid:

marzipanandminutiae:

feels-for-the-fictional:

satanpositive:

Roses are red, that much is true, but violets are purple, not fucking blue.

I have been waiting for this post all my life.

They are indeed purple,
But one thing you’ve missed:
The concept of “purple”
Didn’t always exist.

Some cultures lack names
For a color, you see.
Hence good old Homer
And his “wine-dark sea.”

A usage so quaint,
A phrasing so old,
For verses of romance
Is sheer fucking gold.

So roses are red.
Violets once were called blue.
I’m hugely pedantic
But what else is new?

My friend you’re not wrong

About Homer’s wine-ey sea!

Colours are a matter

Of cultural contingency;

Words are in flux

And meanings they drift

But the word purple

You’ve given short shrift.

The concept of purple,

My friends, is old

And refers to a pigment

once precious as gold.

By crushing up molluscs

From the wine-dark sea

You make a dye:

Imperial decree

Meant that in Rome,

to wear purpura

was a privilege reserved

For only the emperor!

The word ‘purple’,

for clothes so fancy,

Entered English

By the ninth century

.

Why then are voilets

Not purple in song?

The dye from this mollusc,

known for so long

Is almost magenta;

More red than blue.

The concept of purple

is old, and yet new.

The dye is red,

So this might be true:

Roses are purple

And violets are blue

.

While this song makes me merry,
Tyrian purple dyes many a hue
From magenta to berry
And a true purple too.


But fun as it is to watch this poetic race
The answer is staring you right in the face:
Roses are red and violets are blue
Because nothing fucking rhymes with purple.

Hirple – To limp or walk awkwardly

Cirple – An old Scots word for the hindquarters of a horse

“Roses are red, violets are purple,

My boner for you has caused me to hirple.”

My, how romantic!

DYING. I AM DYING.

Calling theshitpostcalligrapher! We need @theshitpostcalligrapher

@kiranovember u better buy this as a commission lmao

This post has evolved.

when i was a wee smeet i wrote my mom this poem:

roses are red

violets are violet

if i had a jet plane

i’d let you be the pilot

tag yourself: ancient greek and latin poetry genres

thoodleoo:

epic

  • never shuts up
  • repeats themself all the time
  • tells the wildest stories

bucolic

  • the nature hoe
  • probably gay
  • life goal is to own a bunch of goats and make their own cheese

lyric

  • definitely gay
  • melodramatic
  • loves the Aesthetic™

elegiac

  • kinky af
  • has actually sent a ‘haha and then what ;)’ text at some point in their life
  • makes poor relationship choices

dramatic

  • do i even need to explain
  • only has two emotions and theyre both always turned up to 11
  • would kill you in a competition if it meant they’d win

iambic

  • kinda mean and extremely petty
  • has never taken responsibility for anything in their life
  • lives for the discourse

Other Things To Do To A Drunken Sailor

oparnoshoshoi:

voidbat:

alexmuninn:

  • Draw a dick on his face in Sharpie
  • Add his boss as a friend on Facebook
  • Eat the last of his Nutella
  • Text his ex with a “U up?” message
  • Tell the IRS he owes back taxes
  • Log in to gmail and change his password

every single one of these fits the rhythm of the song. i sang each one of them. 😀

my mom’s addition was always “hit him in the face with a vick’s inhaler”

That’s a lot of stuff to do early in the mornin.

haiku-robot:

clingy-achy-lesbean:

ms-muscles:

totalspiffage:

If you’re going to space. You have to be prepared to fuck the aliens. Or like at least one person on your crew does I get that it’s not everyone’s thing. I’m just saying. Someone’s gotta do it.

*Me trying to have sex with an alien*

Me: may I touch that?

Alien: That is not an erogenous zone. It is a separate corporeal being that has been attached to my body for three hundred years.

Me: It’s cute. I wonder if it would let me have sex with it.

Alien: That’s exactly what I said three hundred years ago.

Let’s face it, there are two types of people:
Alien fuckers
And cowards

let’s face it there are
two types of people:alien
fuckersand cowards


^Haiku^bot^0.4. Sometimes I do stupid things (but I have improved with syllables!). Beep-boop!

A limerick:

haiku-robot:

logicallysanders:

holdnarrytight:

mira-jadeamethyst:

dumgold:

knittingnoodle:

whoreablejewess:

saltyshinysylveon:

janothar:

nonbinary-thnikkaman:

toothlessrebel:

Doesn’t look like a limerick to you? Try this:

A dozen, a gross, and a score
Plus three times the square root of four
Divided by seven
Plus five times eleven
Is nine squared and not a bit more.

THE HECK HECK HECK HECCCCCKKKKKKKK

POETRY WAS NOT MEANT TO BE USED LIKE THIS

Fine, fine, we’ll kick it up a notch:

Integral zee squared dee zee
From one to the cube root of three
Times the cosine
Of three pi over nine
Is the log of the cube root of e

first of all fuck the both of you

@whatsapigsfavoritebread

@dumgold

…Logic would either adore these, or loathe them.

@sanders-sin @logic-sanders 

@logicallysanders how do you feel about these?? i think they’re infuriating but also kinda satisfying

It’s math and poetry, both of which I have a great appreciation for.

it’s math and poetry
both of which i have a great
appreciation for


^Haiku^bot^0.4. Sometimes I do stupid things (but I have improved with syllables!). Beep-boop!

squeeful:

ineptshieldmaid:

marzipanandminutiae:

feels-for-the-fictional:

satanpositive:

Roses are red, that much is true, but violets are purple, not fucking blue.

I have been waiting for this post all my life.

They are indeed purple,
But one thing you’ve missed:
The concept of “purple”
Didn’t always exist.

Some cultures lack names
For a color, you see.
Hence good old Homer
And his “wine-dark sea.”

A usage so quaint,
A phrasing so old,
For verses of romance
Is sheer fucking gold.

So roses are red.
Violets once were called blue.
I’m hugely pedantic
But what else is new?

My friend you’re not wrong

About Homer’s wine-ey sea!

Colours are a matter

Of cultural contingency;

Words are in flux

And meanings they drift

But the word purple

You’ve given short shrift.

The concept of purple,

My friends, is old

And refers to a pigment

once precious as gold.

By crushing up molluscs

From the wine-dark sea

You make a dye:

Imperial decree

Meant that in Rome,

to wear purpura

was a privilege reserved

For only the emperor!

The word ‘purple’,

for clothes so fancy,

Entered English

By the ninth century

.

Why then are voilets

Not purple in song?

The dye from this mollusc,

known for so long

Is almost magenta;

More red than blue.

The concept of purple

is old, and yet new.

The dye is red,

So this might be true:

Roses are purple

And violets are blue

.

While this song makes me merry,
Tyrian purple dyes many a hue
From magenta to berry
And a true purple too.


But fun as it is to watch this poetic race
The answer is staring you right in the face:
Roses are red and violets are blue
Because nothing fucking rhymes with purple.

Seventeen things you have to learn for yourself
as a Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Questioning, Intersex, Asexual, Pansexual
or otherwise Queer youth
by the time you are seventeen.

One is that the first Pride was a riot
I don’t mean that it was full of laughter, or that it was some grand party
where everyone spiraled up to dance among the stars
because the only glittering that night
was broken glass on cobblestones.
The first Pride was a riot
on the backstreets of New York
and they never tell us
that night
we won.
The only protest
in a decade full of turmoil
where the cops had to hide out in the bar they raided
and run from shouting rioters
who fought to reclaim the only patch of ground they had ever claimed as theirs
the first Pride was a riot,

and two, around the same time it took place
it was a debated topic in the gay community
whether or not they should say
that they weren’t mentally ill

which, three, homosexuality was removed
from the American Psychiatric Association’s list of mental illnesses
in 1974
congratulations
all it took was a vote to declare that, whoops, we were never mentally ill

except, four, there are still teenagers being tortured today
in what some dare blaspheme as “therapy”
used to destroy their self-identity
in the hopes of making them normal.
except, four, the queer community still carries overwhelmingly high rates for poverty and homelessness and depression.

Did you know that, five,
over half the children forced into conversion therapy
commit suicide?

And six, that lesbians
were regarded as “hangers-on”
of the movement
by much of the gay community
before the AIDS crisis?

Because it turns out, seven can wear a rainbow on your shirt
and still be a bigot.
There are people who stick rainbows in their ears
or wear them on their fingers
or slap them across their cheeks in badges of defiance
and will still hate you for the color of your skin
or the size of your thighs
or your gender
or the way you like to kiss two or more genders
or none of the above.
Don’t ask me why this happens
it just does
I think it might be that we’ve all been taught to hate ourselves
for so damn long
that we don’t understand what to do
in a space with no hate.
Or maybe it’s that the space seems too small, because

eight, there are people who will tell you that you are not enough
that you do not reach the magical benchmark of “gay enough” to pass through the gate even
especially
when you are some flavor of the rainbow other than straight-out gay.
eight, this is bullshit
eight, those people are bullshit.
eight, you are enough.
eight, there is always enough room.

nine, there is no overarching “homosexual agenda”
sorry
we’re all kind of flailing along in here trying to figure out some way to make it work
when most of us have nothing in common
except that society looked at us in different ways and decided we didn’t fit
so we could all go be misfits together
under one big rainbow flag

but just so you know, ten, there are plenty of other flags
there is one for you, I promise

and eleven, misfits may not all need the same things
but we need to stick together, especially in a world where

twelve—refer to point seven—there are lesbians who hate other lesbians
for having the audacity to be born in a body
that everyone looked at and saw “boy”
which brings me to

thirteen, there is so much to understand.

fourteen, you need to understand
because we need to stick together
and to stick together we do not have to be the same but we do have to understand
and it will be hard because
you were probably thrown into this world with no warning because

fifteen, being queer is not genetic and we are not unique among minorities
in that we collect our heritage through broken bits of history and research in a world constantly working to make those misfit bits go away
but we are unique in that when we try to prove our legacy
we can be laughed down
or re-erased
or flat out ignored
but I swear to you
you have a history as old as Alexander the Great
as beautiful as Sappho
as dignified as Abraham Lincoln
and as proud as Eleanor Roosevelt.

But even with that behind us
sixteen,
they have always watched us die.
because even though the bystander effect is bullshit, sixteen
Kitty Genovese was a lesbian, sixteen
Ronald Reagan is a mass murderer, sixteen
our children, your brothers and sisters and  siblings of all stripes and all colors and sexualities and genders are being murdered
through neglect
and rejection
and hate.

Sixteen, there is an entire generation of gay and bisexual men
missing from history
because the government chose to do nothing
when they were dying by the thousands.
sixteen, we died from the disease and died from going back into the closet and died for staying there and died for coming out,
sixteen, they laughed at us because they believed god was punishing us for daring to love,
sixteen, ashes of your forerunners rest on the lawn of the White House because
SIXTEEN, THEY HAVE ALWAYS WATCHED US DIE.

SEVENTEEN
you are allowed
to be angry.
You do not have to be one of the nice gays
or one of the nice trans people
or sweet or kind or educate the rest of the world in something less than a yell
you are allowed to be so furious it scalds your bones
at the way we are forgotten
and passed over
at the way, as soon as June becomes July
we are expected
to go back to dying in silence
and mourning our dead
and kissing all alone
when no one can be offended
at the sight of us.
You are allowed to be angry
and scream down the stars
to shatter like broken glass at your feet
because you know what?
The first Pride
was a riot.

October 11 (via spondee-soliloquy)