10 Best Famous Beta Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Beta poems. This is a select list of the best famous Beta poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Beta poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of beta poems.

• All Famous Beta Poems

 Take away your knowledge, Doktor.
It doesn't butter me up.

You say my heart is sick unto.
You ought to have more respect!

you with the goo on the suction cup.
You with your wires and electrodes

fastened at my ankle and wrist,
sucking up the biological breast.

You with your zigzag machine
playing like the stock market up and down.

Give me the Phi Beta key you always twirl
and I will make a gold crown for my molar.

I will take a slug if you please
and make myself a perfectly good appendix.

Give me a fingernail for an eyeglass.
The world was milky all along.

I will take an iron and press out
my slipped disk until it is flat.

But take away my mother's carcinoma
for I have only one cup of fetus tears.

Take away my father's cerebral hemorrhage
for I have only a jigger of blood in my hand.

Take away my sister's broken neck
for I have only my schoolroom ruler for a cure.

Is there such a device for my heart?
I have only a gimmick called magic fingers.

Let me dilate like a bad debt.
Here is a sponge. I can squeeze it myself.

O heart, tobacco red heart,
beat like a rock guitar.

I am at the ship's prow.
I am no longer the suicide

with her raft and paddle.
Herr Doktor! I'll no longer die

to spite you, you wallowing
seasick grounded man.

 My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers
 of my palms tell me so.
Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish
 at the same time. I think

praying, I think clapping is how hands mourn. I think
 staying up and waiting
for paintings to sigh is science. In another dimension this
 is exactly what's happening,

it's what they write grants about: the chromodynamics
 of mournful Whistlers,
the audible sorrow and beta decay of Old Battersea Bridge.
 I like the idea of different

theres and elsewheres, an Idaho known for bluegrass,
 a Bronx where people talk
like violets smell. Perhaps I am somewhere patient, somehow
 kind, perhaps in the nook

of a cousin universe I've never defiled or betrayed
 anyone. Here I have
two hands and they are vanishing, the hollow of your back
 to rest my cheek against,

your voice and little else but my assiduous fear to cherish.
 My hands are webbed
like the wind-torn work of a spider, like they squeezed
 something in the womb

but couldn't hang on. One of those other worlds
 or a life I felt
passing through mine, or the ocean inside my mother's belly
 she had to scream out.

Here, when I say I never want to be without you,
 somewhere else I am saying
I never want to be without you again. And when I touch you
 in each of the places we meet,

in all of the lives we are, it's with hands that are dying
 and resurrected.
When I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life,
 in each place and forever.