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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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# ? Sep 20, 2012 00:27 |
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# ? Apr 17, 2024 20:26 |
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One more. gently caress jet lag. Missed the drat deadline. GMT my rear end. I guess I'm out this week.
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# ? Sep 20, 2012 00:38 |
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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.)
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# ? Sep 20, 2012 00:41 |
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kangaroojunk posted:One more. 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.
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# ? Sep 20, 2012 00:47 |
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kangaroojunk posted:One more. You can only enter if you go full Shakespeare and write a sonnet.
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# ? Sep 20, 2012 01:13 |
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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.
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# ? Sep 20, 2012 01:57 |
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Y Kant Ozma Post posted:ENGAGE TROLL MODE Ozma, I don't want to fight with you in front of the 'domers like this.
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# ? Sep 20, 2012 02:15 |
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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.
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# ? Sep 20, 2012 02:22 |
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The Convict Ship Presented the way poetry should be presented (horribly).
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# ? Sep 20, 2012 02:46 |
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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.) 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! 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.
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# ? Sep 20, 2012 02:52 |
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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
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# ? Sep 20, 2012 02:59 |
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:I approve of this with one caveat: This just makes the challenge all the more enticing.
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# ? Sep 20, 2012 03:22 |
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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.”
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# ? Sep 20, 2012 07:31 |
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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.)
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# ? Sep 20, 2012 07:38 |
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What? What? loving whaaaaaaaat?
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# ? Sep 20, 2012 08:49 |
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Twelve hours to go and less than half of you are done. Chop chop people.
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# ? Sep 20, 2012 13:00 |
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kangaroojunk posted:Prowling of the Night Raider I've tried a bunch of times, but I can't read this without my face curdling like week-old milk.
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# ? Sep 20, 2012 14:25 |
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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.
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# ? Sep 20, 2012 16:55 |
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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.
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# ? Sep 20, 2012 18:20 |
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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.
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# ? Sep 20, 2012 18:53 |
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The hour approaches. During the leadup, I will post appropriate music. Night on Bald Mountain - Modest Mussorgsky
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# ? Sep 20, 2012 21:37 |
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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.
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# ? Sep 20, 2012 21:48 |
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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.”
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# ? Sep 20, 2012 22:09 |
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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.
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# ? Sep 20, 2012 22:43 |
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toanoradian posted:Challenge accepted Romeo & Juliet - Sergei Prokofiev
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# ? Sep 20, 2012 23:13 |
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.
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# ? Sep 20, 2012 23:51 |
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Well, holy poo poo, Black Griffon. I guess the chillest plains hide the -est monsters.
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# ? Sep 21, 2012 00:01 |
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One hour to go.
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# ? Sep 21, 2012 00:02 |
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.
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# ? Sep 21, 2012 00:48 |
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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.
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# ? Sep 21, 2012 01:00 |
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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.
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# ? Sep 21, 2012 01:27 |
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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.
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# ? Sep 21, 2012 02:36 |
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Black Griffon posted:For as I read the prompt again I saw, 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. ()
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# ? Sep 21, 2012 02:44 |
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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.”
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# ? Sep 21, 2012 03:07 |
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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
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# ? Sep 21, 2012 03:12 |
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Patrolling the Mojave almost makes you wish for a nuclear winter.
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# ? Sep 21, 2012 03:29 |
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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.
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# ? Sep 21, 2012 04:08 |
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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.
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# ? Sep 21, 2012 04:43 |
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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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# ? Sep 21, 2012 05:01 |
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# ? Apr 17, 2024 20:26 |
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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
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# ? Sep 21, 2012 05:06 |