Best Famous Nozzle Poems

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

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• All Famous Nozzle Poems

Written by Peter Orlovsky | Frist Poem A rainbow comes pouring into my window, I am electrified. Songs burst from my breast, all my crying stops, mistory fills the air. I look for my shues under my bed. A fat colored woman becomes my mother. I have no false teeth yet. Suddenly ten children sit on my lap. I grow a beard in one day. I drink a hole bottle of wine with my eyes shut. I draw on paper and I feel I am two again. I want everybody to talk to me. I empty the garbage on the tabol. I invite thousands of bottles into my room, June bugs I call them. I use the typewritter as my pillow. A spoon becomes a fork before my eyes. Bums give all their money to me. All I need is a mirror for the rest of my life. My frist five years I lived in chicken coups with not enough bacon. My mother showed her witch face in the night and told stories of blue beards. My dreams lifted me right out of my bed. I dreamt I jumped into the nozzle of a gun to fight it out with a bullet. I met Kafka and he jumped over a building to get away from me. My body turned into sugar, poured into tea I found the meaning of life All I needed was ink to be a black boy. I walk on the street looking for eyes that will caress my face. I sang in the elevators believing I was going to heaven. I got off at the 86th floor, walked down the corridor looking for fresh butts. My comes turns into a silver dollar on the bed. I look out the window and see nobody, I go down to the street, look up at my window and see nobody. So I talk to the fire hydrant, asking "Do you have bigger tears then I do?" Nobody around, I piss anywhere. My Gabriel horns, my Gabriel horns: unfold the cheerfulies, my gay jubilation. Nov. 24th, 1957, Paris

Written by William Carlos (WCW) Williams | The Desolate Field Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses a goat stirs with nozzle searching the ground. My head is in the air but who am I . . . ? —and my heart stops amazed at the thought of love vast and grey yearning silently over me.

Written by John Hay | Jim Bludso, of the Prairie Belle Wall, no! I can’t tell whar he lives, Becase he don’t live, you see; Leastways, he’s got out of the habit Of livin’ like you and me. Whar have you been for the last three year That you haven’t heard folks tell How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks The night of the Prairie Belle? He war’n’t no saint,—them engineers Is all pretty much alike,— One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill And another one here, in Pike; A keerless man in his talk was Jim, And an awkward hand in a row, But he never flunked, and he never lied,— I reckon he never knowed how. 12And this was all the religion he had: To treat his engine well; Never be passed on the river; To mind the pilot’s bell; And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire, A thousand times he swore, He’d hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last soul got ashore. All boats has their day on the Mississip, And her day come at last,— The Movastar was a better boat, But the Belle she wouldn’t be passed. And so she came tearin’ along that night— The oldest craft on the line— With a ****** squat on her safety-valve, And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine. The fire bust out as she clar’d the bar, And burnt a hole in the night, And quick as a flash she turned and made For that wilier-bank on the right. Thar was runnin’ and cussin’, but Jim yelled out, Over all the infernal roar, “I’ll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot’s ashore.” Through the hot, black breath of the burnin’ boat Jim Bludso’s voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness, And knowed he would keep his word. 13And, sure’s you’re born, they all got off Afore the smokestacks fell,— And Bludso’s ghost went up alone In the smoke of the Prairie Belle. He warn’t no saint,—but at jedgement I’d run my chance with Jim, ’Longside of some pious gentlemen That wouldn’t shook hands with him. He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing,— And went for it thar and then; And Christ ain’t a goin’ to be too hard On a man that died for men.