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Martello
Apr 29, 2012

by XyloJW


I didn't enjoy reading any of Austen's stuff ether. I dunno about that privilege bullshit, I just subjectively don't like her writing.

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kangaroojunk
Aug 17, 2012

THUNDERDOME LOSER

One more.

gently caress jet lag.

Missed the drat deadline. GMT my rear end.

I guess I'm out this week.

Bassetking
Feb 20, 2008

And it is, it is a glorious thing, to be a Basset King!


Kurt Vonnegut is dead, or so they say
And "So it Goes" falls quickly by the bye
But can a man so towering in his prose
e'er truly 'scape our zeitgeist's hungry eye?

Frozen, crystal, nine-fold'd ice does spread
so too, wampeater, foma, granfalloons
If Vonnegut is well and truly dead
Then stand his trunkless legs o'er timeless dunes

Upon his works, do look, find not despair
For in their clouds of blackest humor lie
The rarest faith in human spirit borne
Kurt Vonnegut can never truly die

His fools motley is draped across our brow
As we attempt to navigate our sea
of shimmering sheer shattering self-doubt
Synechdoche of station's reverie

Slaughterhouse Five has given way in age
to starstuff bound for Sagan's apple pie
At journey's end champion's breakfast waits
Kurt Vonnegut is Dead, or so they say.

(I may not win or lose, but I'm throwing down in Thunderdome.)
(EDIT: Hat, Journey, and Kurt Vonnegut. Go Time.)

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010



Legit Cyberpunk



kangaroojunk posted:

One more.

gently caress jet lag.

Missed the drat deadline. GMT my rear end.

I guess I'm out this week.

Throw yourself on their mercy. You will have to find it first however.

Edit: I'd think with that epic warp spasm of a sign-up post you'd be okay; the judges may not agree.

Fanky Malloons
Aug 21, 2010

Is your social worker inside that horse?


kangaroojunk posted:

One more.

gently caress jet lag.

Missed the drat deadline. GMT my rear end.

I guess I'm out this week.

You can only enter if you go full Shakespeare and write a sonnet.

kangaroojunk
Aug 17, 2012

THUNDERDOME LOSER

A sonnet? What is this, school? School is for suckers for suckers that can't hustle. I have no idea what that means, either, but gently caress! Thunderdome!

In lieu of an actual entry, here is something awful.

Prowling of the Night Raider

He sniffed. The panties hinted of urine.
The pervert knew that this one was the one.
The special pair he'd use this temperate night.
And on they went, slowly onto his head.
A nasty nightcap for some dirty work.
He felt his crown, a past prize, made him strong.
He is invincible, invisible.
Police sirens pierced the night sky. He hid.
Strong, but perhaps better safe than sorry.
He peered around a corner at his first
Target of the night: the Suds Laundromat.
Pretty girls, handling their undergarments.
So pretty, it made him want to squeal aloud.
He sneaked, slowly and carefully, until
He was close and undetected in front.
A back turned. A giggle. A text. It's time!
Barging in, the door flew open. Girls gasp.
The underwear headed man grabs an arm full,
Then runs out the store, a heavyset blur.
Into the night, whence he came, the man hides.
Pink, blue, purple, flowered, striped, naughty words.
A king's bounty in cotton, silk, satin.
So excited, drool dribbles down his chin.
Gathering the haul, he hugs and kisses
Them together. The smell invigorates.
And so, the adventure will continue on,
An expedition of disgusting delight.
Harken to an unguarded set of undies
Hanging out to dry on a windowsill,
Clotheslines, laundry baskets, wherever he
Can find, night raider of private sundries
Will seek out to add to his collection.

pipes!
Jul 10, 2001


Nap Ghost

Y Kant Ozma Post posted:

ENGAGE TROLL MODE

Ozma, I don't want to fight with you in front of the 'domers like this.

bigmcgaffney
Apr 19, 2009


Martello posted:

I didn't enjoy reading any of Austen's stuff ether. I dunno about that privilege bullshit, I just subjectively don't like her writing.

I'm cool with Austen because she didn't write Jane Eyre which is probably one of my least favorite novels ever.

Wrageowrapper
Apr 30, 2009

DRINK! ARSE! FECKIN CHRISTMAS!

The Convict Ship



Presented the way poetry should be presented (horribly).

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Northanger Abbey is the tits and I will hear nothing against it.

Bassetking posted:

(I may not win or lose, but I'm throwing down in Thunderdome.)
(EDIT: Hat, Journey, and Kurt Vonnegut. Go Time.)

kangaroojunk posted:

A sonnet? What is this, school? School is for suckers for suckers that can't hustle. I have no idea what that means, either, but gently caress! Thunderdome!

In lieu of an actual entry, here is something awful.

I approve of this with one caveat:

you can't win if you enter beyond the admission deadline but you can still lose. Otherwise, we'll get people missing it on purpose to avoid nutting up.

e: ^ we'll need a written copy as well, for marking.

e2: cheers.

Wrageowrapper
Apr 30, 2009

DRINK! ARSE! FECKIN CHRISTMAS!

The Convict Ship

A ship of some two hundred sorry scum
Its cargo pathetic shadows once men
Our iron clad cells fill with dripping piss
Too dark to see, too sick to care, no hope

Musky rot breath with wet wood permeate
Mother, womb and country, gone from memory
From home port sail to cursed Van Diemens Land

Convicted highwaymen, starving Catholics
Seven for arson, life for buggery
My crime poverty, misfortune, murder
With noose shunned, the colony I come
For crimes done punishment deserved my time

A squat frog in uniform croaks taunts and laughs
Horse wigged cretin worthless poo poo on my boot
“Be quiet you horrible lot or else”
Orders are obeyed no rebellion
The cat o nines awaits in confinement

Across the way notorious strumpets
Sad wretched whores in filthy bonnets spit
They cry and curse dead souls womb filled with child
No journeys end for them, floating instead
In burial shroud to water below

No pity from horse wigged, muck spout, creep hedge
Eyes always watching, viewing us sad lot
Lest we resort to sodomy or drink
While some think thoughts, others act them out

Crew above work tirelessly for our want
Rum flows kills scurvy from large tattooed men
They find our new abode and yell around

I will reform, perhaps, some other day
For now just convicted purgatory
Its not much, but at least I have a home

Bassetking
Feb 20, 2008

And it is, it is a glorious thing, to be a Basset King!


SurreptitiousMuffin posted:

I approve of this with one caveat:

you can't win if you enter beyond the admission deadline but you can still lose. Otherwise, we'll get people missing it on purpose to avoid nutting up.

This just makes the challenge all the more enticing.

budgieinspector
Mar 24, 2006

According to my research,
these would appear to be
Budgerigars.



When All Else Fails on the Campaign Trail...

O hearken to the midnight highway's roar;
the campaign buses chew the asphalt, draw
e'er closer to the overarching goal.
'Tis dim inside the forward coach, and o'er

a dozen paper coffee cups, they plot
a path to victory, assured. They trace
with pallid hands, the route toward
a mighty Super Tuesday landslide win!

"The Governor," they say, "hath screwed the pooch.
For half this land doth feel their nipples tweak
and panties do a-twist both near and far
at scornful words pissed down from power's wang!

Are not our countrymen, both high and low,
so quick to take offense at being named
as parasites upon the very rear end
of Liberty? And yet he shows no shame?"

All sigh; their fortunes rest on the conceit
that apology is weakness, so they must
march forward, brazenly, unto the breach
beneath a flag of ill-considered words.

How else can they unseat the dusky Moor
whose presence on the throne doth soil the land
than by uniting in a seamless front?
Then, from the shadows, comes a dashing grin:

"Fear not, my ivory friends; I have a plan!
The Governor hath called me to his aid.
We hie now to the battleground with haste
to find salvation in unlikely climes!

I've tutored our fair leader in the ways
of the low-born, as best I can recall.
Upon a wave of inner city votes,
we'll ride the crest to Glory in the Fall!"

“You’re mad!” they cry. “Now, wait – just hear me out,”
the Lord of Pies says, sipping Perrier.
“America loves naught more than a show;
we need but set the stage to win their hearts.

Imagine, if you will: the Gov’nor strides
up to the dais, decked in FUBU threads.
In solidarity, he holds aloft
one manicured fist o’er the masses’ heads.

“‘I’m one of you,’ he’ll say, and then he’ll prove
his street cred to the awe-inspired crowd,
by busting forth his funky-freshest moves
accomp’nied by the oeuvre of Kanye West.”

“Can this be true?” they ask, in disbelief.
“Is this the way to finally turn the tide?
And are the Gov’nor’s moves so def as to
now sweep the past five decades’ beefs aside?”

“The proof shall be at hand within the hour,
for even now, dawn breaks across the land.
This caravan draws closer to Detroit;
a perfect choice to implement this plan!”

And later, as the Gov’nor disembarked--
atop his head, a giant afro wig--
the Lord of Pies strolled, smiling, from the fray:
“You pass me for VP? Man, suck my dick.”

JimsonTheBetrayer
Oct 13, 2010

Game's over, and fuck you Jimson. It's not my fault that you guys couldn't get your shit together by deadline. No one gets access to docs because I don't fucking care anymore, I hope you all enjoyed ruining my game, and there won't be another.


A man in khakis enters into the Thunderdome. The crowd grows quiet. There was no fight scheduled for this ten minutes, why is he here? Why is he brandishing that sword? A look of determination crosses his face as he presses the tip of the blade against his stomach.

"I HAVE SHAMED MYSELF IN THE FIELD OF BATTLE BROTHERS AND I HAVE RAN FROM A GOOD FIGHT!"

He stabs the blade into his stomach forcing a grimace onto his face. Blood begins to leak from his mouth, he coughs once, twice, and then begins to vomit violently. Spraying the dusty ground of the Thunderdome with his blood. He falls to the ground, spent. No longer able to fight the battle he pledged himself to.

(Sorry guys I gotta drop out of this one, I tried hundreds of times and I just can't write a god damned poem.)

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


What? What? loving whaaaaaaaat?

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Twelve hours to go and less than half of you are done. Chop chop people.

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010



Legit Cyberpunk



kangaroojunk posted:

Prowling of the Night Raider

He sniffed. The panties hinted of urine.
The pervert knew that this one was the one.
The special pair he'd use this temperate night.
And on they went, slowly onto his head.
A nasty nightcap for some dirty work.
He felt his crown, a past prize, made him strong.
He is invincible, invisible.
Police sirens pierced the night sky. He hid.
Strong, but perhaps better safe than sorry.
He peered around a corner at his first
Target of the night: the Suds Laundromat.
Pretty girls, handling their undergarments.
So pretty, it made him want to squeal aloud.
He sneaked, slowly and carefully, until
He was close and undetected in front.
A back turned. A giggle. A text. It's time!
Barging in, the door flew open. Girls gasp.
The underwear headed man grabs an arm full,
Then runs out the store, a heavyset blur.
Into the night, whence he came, the man hides.
Pink, blue, purple, flowered, striped, naughty words.
A king's bounty in cotton, silk, satin.
So excited, drool dribbles down his chin.
Gathering the haul, he hugs and kisses
Them together. The smell invigorates.
And so, the adventure will continue on,
An expedition of disgusting delight.
Harken to an unguarded set of undies
Hanging out to dry on a windowsill,
Clotheslines, laundry baskets, wherever he
Can find, night raider of private sundries
Will seek out to add to his collection.

I've tried a bunch of times, but I can't read this without my face curdling like week-old milk.

Bear Sleuth
Jul 17, 2011



I worked really hard for days and ended up writing something stupid.


Through crypts beneath the city’s nomal shell
searching for cheese of sweet and nutty notes,
this Jarlesburg, monger’s rapture, we journey.
“Fetch for me this rich fromage and waking
elixir your reward.” Another quest,
another level, one more dungeon down.
And there, in catacomb, ‘midst skull and silt,
a chest. Vender trash? Rich reward? We rush
forward dispatching slime mold, mushroom man,
and clogging swarm of bat; to gather round
our prize. Cracking the lid, inside: a hat.
It’s brim is wide, too wide, and leather red.
A buckle fixed upon the crown, gaudy
and ill-considered. Worst of all, pompous
foliage thrust overt: the feather peaking.
“Not on my head,” I cry. Companions turn
beseeching eyes toward mine, imploring.
“It offers plus six shielding,” speaks Gn’nor,
“and boosts charisma by three.” “Give it over
to Kurt,” I avert, “he requires it more
than me.” Vonnegut shakes his curly brow,
mustached lip sneering. “Ruin to thieve or cut-
purse who wears such flamboyant clothing. No,
Gn’nor for whom this cap is destined.” Shocked,
the warrior holds out hands, pleading. “Not me!”
And seeing our unwavering gazes, screams “I.
Can’t. Even. Equip. It!” And so, night becomes
day above unseen and still our row
unceasing. Dire, that rat so vast, so mean,
infected scourge comes prowling. Us, invested
in our quarrel don’t hear the scratch stone scape
of plague claws or the rasping yellow wheeze.
The Dire-rat surging forth, we caught unwary,
incisors large as plows: gnashing, infecting.
Diseased, blood-soaked, raw, we fall. The rat,
keeper of cheese, and king of tunnel, sewer,
and vault, dines and we die. Adventure’s end,
lives lost. The curtain falls on hat unclaimed.

Fanky Malloons
Aug 21, 2010

Is your social worker inside that horse?


SurreptitiousMuffin posted:

Twelve hours to go and less than half of you are done. Chop chop people.

For the dunderheads that can't wrap their tiny minds around 0:00 GMT, that's 19:00 EST. Get busy, motherfuckerrrrs.

kangaroojunk
Aug 17, 2012

THUNDERDOME LOSER

sebmojo posted:

I've tried a bunch of times, but I can't read this without my face curdling like week-old milk.

Mission accomplished.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


The hour approaches. During the leadup, I will post appropriate music.

Night on Bald Mountain - Modest Mussorgsky

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


BLO OD E M PR E SS

of

THUDNER-DOME


Due to restrictive voter fraud laws in many states, the disenfranchised are forced to fight each other over garbage hats in some misguided attempt to recreate feudal society. Don't support restrictive voting laws.

Kings and Vagabonds

He skulks and lurks and stinks to holy hell,
that hoary prince of under-bridge, he goes
to claim the garbage crown. They say it's made
of turnips, moldy bread, and toenail bits,
the foulest in the land, and calls the prince
to claim his throne, as King of hobo clans.
His way is stricken, foul and contested,
by other transient heirs who attack
with brittle tooth, stained shank and grimy nails,
and beards all beaded with spittle and blood,
but the prince of under-bridge, rightful king,
is reaper, bludgeon-handed, iron-eyed.
Through alleyways and under manhole covers,
apocalypse, invisible to we,
the soft, the shaven, un-blooded and fat;
apocalypse, a culling for that crown,
the foulest in the land, calling princes
to claim the throne as king of hobo clans.
The prince is haggard, his breath is rasping.
Again, again, they fall upon him, hordes
of warring men, not caring who their blades
and sticks make bleed, and again, and again
he strikes them down. Their blood shines streetlight orange
in the wretched night, and dries like tar on
the prince's hands. He sniffs the air and knows
the garbage crown is nearly within reach,
for the smell of its dumpster housing wreaks,
the foulest in the land, and calls the prince
to claim his throne as King of hobo clans.
His knees are weak and his fists are raw now,
his eyes are mad and red and he mutters
and twitches and froths, so close is he, so
close, and now he's climbing jagged fence post,
and now he's scrambling with hell on his heels,
the victors racing, cutting, battling still,
and there, that holy dumpster, and the crown--
but lo, he throws the lid open and howls
foul play, for no turnips nor toenails nor
bread mold does he find. The hordes behind him
come to a stop, so fearsome is his cry,
and over head he holds the imposter,
a browning 'tater crown. "Who will lead us?"
one grizzled prince ventures in the silence
of revelation most foul. "There's no king,
and never was," says a voice from within
the crowd. "Told ye' it were a myth, I did,"
another voice said to his fellow prince,
and soon the bloodied masses wander back
to homes beneath the eyes of daylight, all
but that hoary prince of under-bridge, who
slumps down with his 'tater crown of nothing
and weeps. The morning shines on countless dead,
all fallen in the name of a legend,
in name of an odor on foul night wind,
the foulest in the land, and dooms princes
to futile deaths; there is no King of hobo clans.

Noah
May 31, 2011

Come at me baby bitch


A trout, a fish with quite a bit of clout
Aloft the wastelander’s head it doth sat.
Everywhere the man went, the trout went too
Flipping and flopping and making a scene.

Any place in the wastes that the man went
People would stop and ask him about his hat,
“’er since the lakes bottomed out and wells dried
This feller has just been looking for home.”

But that doesn’t answer why he’s on your head,
“Do you remember the ocean?” he said.
And the crowd would shake their heads and say no.

“Well let me tell you about that big beauty
bright and blue, calm and cool, white waves like wool.
There ain’t nothing we got close to ocean
As the wide open expanse we call a sky.”

They all looked up and began to pout.
For they too were all just like the trout.

”I remember before the sands came in
And the buzzards couldn’t fly from gorging
So does my friend, as he sits on my coif.
I know he misses the day to swim free,
‘Cause every so often I hear his plea.”

The wastelander would point up to his ear
And the crowd hushed intently so to hear
as the trout flopped and gurgled “Wa-wa.”

toanoradian
May 30, 2011


Grumble grumble all poetry are dicks
to even think, but dicker more to write

(submission starts here)

Shopping List
Two things I need to remember, simple
To keep in mind: It’s A and some other
It’s all in here, written in the good List
Of things to buy, which I can get right now
I have money to purchase the items
I believe it’s A, with another of sort

My memories are well-built, the best sort
Ah, yes. From list: it’s A and B. Simple
To memorize. I need to buy items
All for my husband, my precious Other
No time to hesitate, Shop opens now
I bring my pouch of gold, but left the List

Convinced in myself that it’s fine; no List
Is good. This fog in me is plain to sort
I need some B, I understand it now
I miss nothing, no fear, keep it simple
No thing is left, just B, not another
I only need to obtain hat-like items.

B codes for ‘hats’, our favourite items
Our collection is rather long to list
Ushankas, capuchons and some other
Beautiful hats. For fun we like to sort
Through them, but he likes fancy, me simple
Focus please, just buy hats, that’s all for now

My head is fuzzy, fog-filled mess, but now
I have no distraction, just seek items
Of low and yet beautiful worth. Simple!
There is nothing I forgot in the List
The shopkeeper person is the nice sort
No List is fine; I know there’s no other

Stuff I need. I’m sure, hats and no other
Shopkeeper doubts me, what can he do now?
Although unsure, he shows the hats, with sort
of colours red and gold, the best items
I thought through foggy headspace, for the list
of hats we’ve owned. Buy a new hat. Simple.

Too bad there’s another. Not all items
That I have now fulfills the shopping list
For faults of this sort, eat fruit hats. Simple.

(submission ends here)

Gurrargh and blargh, I said. This week is hard.
At least no rhyming is necessary

SurreptitiousMuffin posted:

If it's too difficult for you sunshine, try a loving sestina.
Challenge accepted

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


toanoradian posted:

Challenge accepted
I approve.


Romeo & Juliet - Sergei Prokofiev

Black Griffon
Mar 12, 2005


I will let my voice roam the dome, as promised, but I can't tonight because people are trying to sleep and this should be spoken with some volume for maximum effect.

Steel From Stars Beyond

Beyond the starlit chambers of the bridge,
I stand in solemn revelry, of him,
Who judges that which drives my heart to beat,
And strikes upon the ones without our faith.
Through duty done, through death upon new death,
We ride the winds of stars, to end of all,
And if we should be judged before our time,
Know this, my epitaph is of his will.

We ride from Sirius, to Luna's dark,
And stride upon the surface of the moon.
Lay waste to that which mocked our faith, so strong,
And break the back of lions, dragged from hell.
See Gabriel, with hatred for the Earth,
And Raguel, who breaks the thousand seals.
We ride to war, upon the back of faith,
And earth will fall before our wrath of God.

Through atmosphere, we drive our steeds of steel,
And fire meets us, crushes, smites, but see,
We brave remain, we few we of the faith,
And planetfall breaks backs of giants strong.
See New York fall before dark Remiel,
And Moscow tremble at great Uriel.
A thousand weapons fill the blue sweet skies,
And turn them black, as cursed starless space.

Before us trembles presidents and kings,
In coats and hats and suits, covered in blood.
One stands there strong, and brave in foolishness,
The sun will always rise, and then that's it,
A few words ended with a thunderous crack,
As Michael's gun has borne the doom of queens.
The ribbons of her hat go by the winds,
A curious, confectionery, thing.

We leave the earth and head for Jupiter,
For Titan and Europa, for their end,
The fortresses of men will fall again.
What wonders of such death and endless dread,
Awaits Raphael, with his scepter strong,
And Sariel, with railgun forged from pain,
Will slaughter cities, in the name of God,
And heaven will forever reign, supreme.

toanoradian
May 30, 2011


Well, holy poo poo, Black Griffon. I guess the chillest plains hide the -est monsters.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


One hour to go.

Black Griffon
Mar 12, 2005


toanoradian posted:

Well, holy poo poo, Black Griffon. I guess the chillest plains hide the -est monsters.

As much as I find pride in your grand words
My mind had wandered far, too far indeed,
For as I read the prompt again I saw,
That silly hats must don the head of those,
Who's role in mine own poem should be main,
And not the extras, bland, of no import.

I fear thus fate and wrath of judges grand,
As they would look upon my work as bland,
But in this thunderdome there is no peace,
No mercy, grace or respite from quick death.
And so I must stand strong against the few,
'Cause my poem kicks y'all asses, dicks.

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Oh for christ's sake. Time's up and just over half of you are in. Here's a thing:

I'm extending the deadline to some point in the next few hours. I'm not going to be more specific, since this offer is generous enough already.

If blank verse is giving you a huge amount of trouble, I will accept other formal poetic forms.

Peace, bitches.

Bassetking
Feb 20, 2008

And it is, it is a glorious thing, to be a Basset King!


toanoradian posted:

Challenge accepted

I've written a couple sestinas.

I've written a rhyming, nonsense sestina with a retrograde-cruxiatus end-format, and an anteriorgrade-cruxiatus opening format.

It took me three weeks to hammer those goddamned 39 lines of poetry onto a page.

Erik Shawn-Bohner
Mar 21, 2010

by XyloJW


I slept later than my bogus probation lasted.

It's a hundred and six minutes until Muffin shuts this down, I've got a full glass of whiskey, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark, and I'm wearing sunglasses.

toanoradian
May 30, 2011


Black Griffon posted:

For as I read the prompt again I saw,
That silly hats must don the head of those,
Who's role in mine own poem should be main,
And not the extras, bland, of no import.

Ode to Validity of Angel War Poetry
I saw and read the prompt again
And found a loophole, good to gain
Your metal verse a ground for it to rock
A verbal trick'ry made to scare and shock
"As verse may not have main
hero, I, Muffin, deigns
Just words of hats, not worn, still fits
the rule, so no 'out of my wits'"

As such, by their declaration, you're good
I think. Have I made myself understood?


Aha, this trick have some weak spots!
It's Mad, a buffoon's type of thoughts!
Muffin amends the rule for special kinds
Of poetry, in which between their lines
No character is there!
I can now feel despair
Your 'loophole' stains this drat hell-hole
A fitting end, for you, poor soul
Is death, by , a punishment
Of great evil, the Fatal Banishment


The arguments, all said and done,
The better Counter-Turn have won
Of course, all this comes back to The Muffin
It may have effects, it may have nuffin'
All this is just for fun
Of which I have a ton
Regarding Best of Verse so far
I think there are two brilliant stars
Chairchucker's Popepoem, as good as sin,
Or Black Griffon's angels, fated to win.



Sestinasist, have my attempt
Offended thee? Has it made you
drat mad? If so, here's my response
Well, you just suck.
()

Erik Shawn-Bohner
Mar 21, 2010

by XyloJW


Brain spew. Suck it.

About Frank

He never wanted to go in early,
tumbler in hand, from channel to channel,
this late-night morning coming to a cusp
in the space between Letterman and hats.

That hat, a bright orange and foamy kite
catches the wind when Frank gallops the lot,
cheering and jeering himself, all for them.

“The cowboy” they scream, running up before
even the used car salesman can begin.

“Lowest in town”, he'd say tipping his hat,
all twenty gallons of wanna-be cowboy.

He'll undo the top two pearl snap-buttons
to let a little of his chest poke through,
the plaid-coated salesman says it is good.

“The ladies love it” he goes, but Frankie knows
they just want to see the clown in the hat.

He'll go back tonight, to ramen, roaches, bills
all ignored. Half-asleep and all dreaming
of that time with the little girl trampling
on her white lace skirt, tugging on his sleeve.

“It's not all okay, mister cowboy,” she says.
He pulls the giant rim, “But it will be.”

Martello
Apr 29, 2012

by XyloJW


I cain't post photos from my phone so Her Fankness will have to take my ironclad word for it on the goblet squats.

Also good thing SuspiciousMcGuffin extended the deadline because I forgot that California is not in EST.

I know I'd still be late even if I didn't mix up the time zones, but you rookie judges can go gently caress yourselves either way.

This Mojave shithole is making me think about Afghanistan too much, so I wrote this awful thing.

UNREQUITED BLOODLUST

Hot wind stirs powd'ry dust around my boots
My fingers ungloved on hot black plastic
Barking death in my sunburned hands I scan
No enemy seen to shed his lifeblood

Bloodlust burns in my eyes like fever heat
Seeking a threat among drab ragged robes

Bloodlust cords my lean dry muscles like whips
My fingertip strokes the hot steel trigger

A little girl looks up at me, she smiles
Her dark hair loose bouncing around her face
When she becomes a woman grown, a shroud
Black cloth masking her personality

I see my niece in her sweet curls and smile
My blood is cooled, my lust is doused like flame
At peace I wave and smile back at the girl

My heart is still, I walk among people
Going about their little mundane lives
I see no enemy waits here for me
And thoughts of home rise up against my will
The fight will come another loud red day

--------------


Burqas are the silliest of silly hats

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010


Patrolling the Mojave almost makes you wish for a nuclear winter.

Erik Shawn-Bohner
Mar 21, 2010

by XyloJW


SurreptitiousMuffin posted:

Patrolling the Mojave almost makes you wish for a nuclear winter.

Just hurry up and declare me the winner. If you didn't shed a tear at the end of my hastily written poem... you're a monster.

Jonked
Feb 15, 2005

by exmarx


Oh, hey, poo poo, it's Thursday already? gently caress, I thought I had another day to edit this. Hopefully I can get in before the wire.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"


1) I never bothered to even look at the deadline
2) Petrarchan Sonnet, not Shakespearean
3) No Kurt Vonnegut.

RULES. WHATEVER.

The Untimely Death of Missy May

The windows wept with rain and Mom forbade
Another step in Missy's warrior dance.
"Now behave yourself, this is your last chance!"
"But I'm so bored, bored, bored!" cried Missy May.

When Mom to her book returned Missy crept
Down basement stairs into forbidden crypt.
With Bucket helm and broomstick sword equipped.
She stalked the iron dragon where it slept.

But oh! the looming beast shuddered awake!
The mouth of fire roared to stay away.
"I won't, I won't! You can't make me obey!"

Defying orders she knew she should take,
She leapt, but tripped and stumbled in her haste.
She kissed the flames and burned as quick as hay.

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Jonked
Feb 15, 2005

by exmarx


I finished editing it so that I'm pretty sure it at least meets the 'pentameter' part, but my accent is so hosed and I'm so bad at stresses that the 'iambic' part is a toss up. I guess there's nothing to do but throw myself to the mercy of the judges.

Milly goes to Work

No such trial err’ existed daily
As the fraught-filled travel of sweet Milly
She girds herself in that modern armor
Long overcoat at her neck tightly clasped
Fine black boots of leather upon her feet
To match the dull brownish gloves on her hands
Her helm, the dazzling crowning jewel piece,
A pink knitted unicorn was chosen.
Her face she wore a practiced expression
Blankly but for hint of indifference
This she faced her many tribulations.
The vulgar cat calls and endless jeering
From a diverse collection of fellows
Both girlish terror and maiden fancy
Stoically endured on her bus ride
“Oh, Show us your pretty smile, lady”
As they leer shamelessly her hips and breast
Young men gripped by ‘youthful indiscretion’
And more old men, well practiced at this trade
Some days they rested silently a bit
Other days they came in such multitudes
That the entire earth seemed ruled by brutes
And no sanctuary could yet remain
Her careful mask cracking, almost shattered
Just before her destination was reached
Released, she takes heart and is much relieved
Hopeful that her return no troubles meet
Removing her cover of mythic yarn
So, onward does she goes to her employ
Meeting those troubles of a different sort
But still cousin to those that came before