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Old 11-16-2014, 03:20 AM   #1
Certain
Mad fucking dangerous.
 
Certain's Avatar
 
Join Date: Jul 2013
Posts: 12,072
Battle Record: 40-19


Champed
- AOWL Season 3
- Art of Writing League (2x)

Rep Power: 85899402
Certain has a reputation beyond reputeCertain has a reputation beyond reputeCertain has a reputation beyond reputeCertain has a reputation beyond reputeCertain has a reputation beyond reputeCertain has a reputation beyond reputeCertain has a reputation beyond reputeCertain has a reputation beyond reputeCertain has a reputation beyond reputeCertain has a reputation beyond reputeCertain has a reputation beyond repute
Default Season 2 champion: PancakeBrah



PancakeBrah had a very unique showing in the second season of the Art of Writing League. Only three of his eight regular-season battles went to votes, with two disqualification wins, two no-show wins and a no-show loss. He finished at 6-2 with a regular-season championship. Then the playoffs started, with him seeded fifth, and he hit high gear. He won his first two rounds with a vote count of 13-1 against YDK and Mr. J before Diode no-showed him in the semifinals. Finally he upstaged Frank in a serious blowout, a 9-0 championship match. His season will be best remembered for the weirdness and his dominance during the playoffs, but he proved himself among the elite writers with this showcase.


Season championship
Topic:

Posted on Jan. 12, 2014
Result: Beat Frank 9-0


CTRL+ALT+DLT
lol @ you Sheep.

Mark collected government paychecks, away from the workaday freaks.
$555 a week, enough to pay for WiFi and all the ho-ho’s he could eat.
He hacked for a fee. Went past meta-crypts to steal megabits
and only accepted BitCoin to hide the income from his case specialist.
Known online as ‘Crackpot’, he did well of it. He had e-stacks printed,
enough to buy a black tinted laptop with the slick matte finish.
Cyber sleuth. Had his custom avators and ‘gaia’ troupes on his hard drive
(his had the custom tailored tiger suit). All in all, an odd guy.
As a pastime he’d try to find the ‘truth’ in archives;
like 9/11 clues, hidden apartheids. He’d often laugh at the sheep
from his swivel chair. “I bet you all think you’re actually free,
while the Rothchild illuminati controls every action you see.”
Surfed AboveTopSecret.com. Being right fueled him in topics and threads,
daily. He had trouble finding news and theories he hadn’t already read
lately. Until he found one post with a thousand replies plus,
written by the handle ‘Knowles’. He read, caught with surprised lust;

“CHURCH OF THE CELL”
http://phys.org/news/2013-06-physici...retically.html
“Greetings. I am Reverend Knowles, and above is the tome
of the Church of the Cell. We wish to welcome you home.
You may be skeptical, but this is at the very root of the lives that you drew.
We have over 100 members, keen, with an eye for the truth.
Do you want to know the meaning of life? Contact this line if you do; 1-323-903-6972”

The idea was unique. Plus the subscribers co-signed with his ‘think’.
Mark was behooved to listen. The separatist view aligned with his mission
to prove the populous wrong. He eventually moved and was living
with the topics’ nubile admissions. He read the pamphlets over incense,
as was standard for the 'Imprint.' They rarely saw the prophet Knowles,
and instead recited his objective goals. ‘Reject the common known
paradigm.’ ‘Look towards the salvation.’ ‘You’re a steam of digits, honed.’
‘This is your home.’ and ‘We share the mind.’ The digital text spoke
of an endgame. Mark read every psalm with a confident grin.
Hooked. He’d found all of the win, bypassing the crowd in their din.
Looking forward to the truth, his...

Hair coiffed, angled. Crisp, the smile of a model with hazel eyes,
as he exited his squared off chambers and uncapped bottle of maple rye.
Reverend Knowles. He assumed the pulpit in a heavy set of robes,
took a breath, then let it go.
“Welcome!” to the crowded pews, to each successive row.
“As you know, our very cells hold computerized self-correcting code,
and on our collective road we finally arrive, tonight, at our compression goal.”
He lifts his glass, causing the congregated mass to follow,
each containing maple rye and a dissolvable tab to swallow.
“Drink with me! To rapture! Together, as enlightened, connected souls.”
Mark drank his with a smile. Eyes closed as the concoction hit his teeth.
As the poison made him nod out, right before it’d get to his heart
he was assured of his route, like the dozens by him. And before he’d give to the sleep
he cracked one last smile at all those idiot sheep still living in the dark.



Playoff semifinals
Topic: Take the bull by the horns
Posted on Dec. 29, 2013
Result: Won via Diode no-show


Horn

Yesterday

We sat at the bonfire. We’d used the last of the kindling and tinder
for this. It cracked. ***kled at the debris in the beginning of Winter.
Dad wrapped up in his three blankets, with that cancerous cough
while the black soot still fell. The very same that damaged the crops.
I smiled at him weakly as the fire cooked our last batch of venison.
He smiled back, with his eyes hollow from the lack of medicine.

Six Months Ago

He stood in front of me, in front of a pack of jackals, of thieves.
Packed to the teeth. Two, maybe three, I didn’t look past him to see.
“Take what you want from us and leave” At any sign of trouble
As our supplies were ruffled through, without fight or any type of struggle
the Walthier in my pocket’s weight felt doubled within my whitened knuckles.
Our cart now barren. As they slinked away I sighed a silent cry of “Fuck you.”
After they disappeared on the horizon we walked in empty silence,
like our reserves. “I know you’re mad. But if we fought, it’d end in violence.
We can find new food. We can’t replace us.” As he coughed up thick decay.
He was weak and I looked at him as if were, in a different way.

Two Years Ago

My first thought was whether or not mom saw or heard the blast
of the plume that followed that awesome, bursting clap of exhumed dirt and ash.
I assumed she died of fumes or the ensuing savage human acts,
while dad gathered supplies; the water, the blankets, the food, the axe.
Any and all he could grasp. I bet she heard it coming, that Godless whistle.
He shook me back to reality, handing me his Walthier pistol
while people outside looted, newborn crooks eating off the gristle
as the panic settled in comfortably. All from one rocket, missile.
He locked the doors. The house was airtight, through to the bottom
coughing all the while. Where do you do chemo in a nuclear autumn?
How does parent visitation work now? It’ll be a long weekend this time,
starting with the first aftermath dinner. Cold cuts and skinned limes.
while the rest of everyone stockpiled in preparation for the weather
we ate…cold cuts and skinned limes. And he told jokes to make me feel ‘better’.

One Year Ago

I kicked rocks off the gravel as we passed by the footprints in the soot
that made use ignore the gas station. Supposedly freshly minted by crooks.
Supplies low, axe dulled. Our cart’s axles squeaked, alignment was off,
and we just walked past a few months of food. My father was soft.
“We’ll find a better place to resupply, I promise. You can never be too safe.”
Kick another rock, head down. Yeah, but you can be too late.

Today

I did cry. As I shook the heap of blankets, flesh, and bones that
I called my father. Now just a weight. A heavy stone, flat,
laying prone, back stiff and eyes lulled, black. I sat there for a while, idle.
Until the tears dried. It’s a voiding feeling. He had his napkin by his rifle,
all wrinkled with dried blood. Weak as he was.

Emotions well and gone, I stocked the cart, hardly packed to the lid.
I left one of three blankets still covering dad. I heard the snap of a twig
to my left. “Hey kid, what you got in the cart?” Raspy and thick.
I turned, cocked the hammer, and shot the stranger dead where he stood
And went on my way, bull by the horn.



Playoff quarterfinals
Topic:

Posted on Dec. 18, 2013
Result: Beat Mr. J 7-(-4)


Business.

David isn’t Patrick Bateman, no. He isn’t Travis Bickle deranged,
he’s simply kempt. Face bathed in soap, tailored in Valentino layered coats
strictly arranged. Fickle, in gator toes. Lapping the ladder rungs,
watching as colleagues slip from the gable’s ropes back to the cattle run.
Detached, with a smile flashing off of his platinum tie clips
with patented dryness. Can’t recall the last he saw of the back of his eyelids
off on his Zoloft and Ritalin coughs. Driven. Medicated in a millionaire loft,
living in salt. Capitalist chakras in tune. On business, he’s visited Prague
and Ibiza, only to know their every marketable feature. His margins aligned,
a cognizant leader with a slight temper and dulled spark in his eyes.

He meets Ava in a bar, of course. She’s wearing Gothika chic and pockets of lint.
Little tassles, lockets and trinkets. Soft in the cheek, she moves like a walking of winks,
adorned with the gaudiest ringlets. Black sheer stockings with her body anemic,
she frolicks the scene, often caught with a free drink from the Johns she was seen with
while David sat sated, starched. A suit, holding an Old Fashioned fashioned with Maker’s Mark
annoyed that the napkin sticks. Passive. A pacifist in matching wits in a scene so dark.
So when she sits down, it’s an adrenal spark. Flush of face in an awkward pause.
This is no place for business cards. There’s no Action Plan if you can’t chart the cause.
He’s fucked his whore or two. Of course. But there’s a difference between rotten and fresh;
“Want to buy me a drink?” He nods with a “Yes.”

“Your performance has declined as of late, David” says the Chairman.

David doesn’t know gossamer from satin. Is gossamer satin?
Lost in the patterns. Aloft, drinking coffee with her is Latin. Innate.
Naked cross section of passion. Winterlove, winter in cabins. She’s late.
Often. Ava is the watch. Time is so latent. Time is so late.
What is a problem? Cross legged, thatched in a snowy mornings wake.
So foreign, these once pressing capitalization rates.
Cracked fire wood is the pace. Slow. Soaking in every falling flake
outside. Fingertips fire. A single blanket, an ice rink once called a lake
as a view. Teenage dream, renewed. The lack of a ledger,
warmth in Ava. At peace, eyes now undulled, together.

“We need to have a serious talk.” says the Chairman.

It’s an interlock of moonlit fingertips. Surround sound tinnitus. David locked into her. Life's lack of animus. Her locked into him. The big bang phantom dust. Neutron candle lust. Disregard of the rational. She’s his ration, him hers. Each other’s hymn verse. From here to sand, to dust.

“You’re fired.”
“I’m pregnant.”
Freedom. What's to your goal now?
"None. I'm happy."



Playoff Round 1
Topic: You Must Love Me
Posted on Dec. 8, 2013
Result: Beat YDK 6-(-5)


Pretty White Girls.

Marginal. Withdrawn, the void of effervescence.
Next. Succession. Barely buoyant, pressed against it.
Detached. The feeling embroiled in separate sessions,
unboiling. A watched kettle, toiling in desk professions.
The plots, settled. All statements null, facing the factless.
So spacious, the blackness. You're bent over backwards,
wasted, not knowing you're retracing your backflips
for disposable actors. On the spark, and how it died.
Another lark. Just sit and abide by this heart of alkali.
Logical lies. Watch; reflect on past crossing of lines;
the dull gloss is refined. The faux embossment'll shine
until it's all just a bundle of awkward, aprocryphal lies
written on parchment of white, forgotten. Disposed,
with porn as escape. Breathe in the rot of the cloves
nostalgia borne. The pangs of former gossamer throes;
formerly raked, now you willing walk through the coals
in fettered debt. Coloring your tone monochrome in beige
in every tete a tete. You've grown your lot in lone malaise,
honed. 'We' as estranged, with her goading exposition.
"You must love me." Probably, by the supposed definition.
But you could say the same about any pretty white girl
I've known and for which all my prose is written.



Week 10 title match
Topic: "I have seen that in any great undertaking it is not enough for a man to depend simply upon himself."
Deadline on Saturday, Nov. 30, 2013
Result: Lost via no-show to Vulgar




Week 9 title match
Topic:

Posted on Nov. 23, 2013
Result: Won via Frank disqualification (for editing)


Masks.

It was all a bit less than rose stems with teeth marks.

Alice in August. Disheveled, she lapped through afternoon snifters and flasks.
Vodka would splash on her lips from the glass while perusing her different masks;
there was diffident, crass, flippant, or dismissive with just a smidge of militant acts.
She would flip through her stash, biting her lip in the mirror until it would match
her outfit in the glass. She always picked the maroon lipstick with just a dash of base
since neither seemed to clash with any of her personas’ collective black malaise.
Eclectic, while Flea slapped the bass she pre-gamed with pot in fractioned eighths,
which lead her to machinate on her pitfalls, on her sprawling lack of faith,
how ‘if you don’t stop you don’t withdrawal’, tonight’s party starting just after eight,
and how she tried to recall exactly how her dad touched her clit when she masturbates.
Simply passing the time, this Saturday, recollecting her most prized underachievements,
waiting for the call. Waiting on the last soiree for this summer’s bereavement,
thumbing her attention scars under her sweater when tension calls. Numb to the feeling
as her phone hummed, eventually succumbed to the ringing.

-

Alice is offered. One little tab, a Technicolor sweet tart.
‘Burning the candle at both ends?
Don’t be a sweetheart. After this it’s all wine and rose stems with teeth marks.
Don’t be a drag.’
The party is in its autumn. The once present haze, afloat,
is just a dull sting on the nostrils now. Enough that a nubile would be made to choke
but its secondhand to this apostate crowd. ‘Your nerves are repressive.
Just take it.’
The circle of five are sedated, speaking tripped out cursory lessons
like it’s cursive. “Alice, are you afraid?” said so perversely it’s prescient.
“Of course not.” So she’s handed the acid. Five glares, a moment.
Minutes pass as it's on her tongue. Euphoria bypassed. Its serotonin;
it’s a different kind of numb, it’s bare aloneness,
It’s



‘Alice, in chains. As a carcass, her body of cross thatched lattice,
with synapses aflame. Tossed around, lost, aloft in a dark black madness,
and all that is pain. Where visage’s waft bare boned, unspooling aura
around her raggedy Anne frame, brittle and soft, for humored horror
in a tableau devoid, a broodish noir. It’s a ghoul’s haunted lilt at night,
a thousand screams but her own, with her lips sewn tight
and eyes wide shut. It’s the shuttering creep, the floating touch on her cheek.
Barren nostalgia of her father’s shuffling feet.
It’s kill on sight. Every fear under the sheets brought to light, a fever.
Her soul on ice tethered to the chill of all fright, measured and metered.
It’s the realization of blight. Soaking. The loss of all features,
the muffled “Why?”, wading through ether.’


-

Alice, in bed. Recovering from the path she’d gone, the awkward pause as she left
the party, made up of scoffs and guffaws. What was once halcyon’s now bereft.
Kleenex box at her head. Self-medicated, the induced results that she felt;
hands on her face, and as always she couldn’t find the pulse in her pelt.
Lost in her thought, another road preferably less travelled, taken.
‘These are the cards you were dealt’/ ‘Fuck that, your mind is a playpen’
The masks would bask in battle back and forth, as she’d lay still, lost in time,
with one more mistake, one more mask, to be haunted by.



Week 8 contender match
Topic: Mr. Sandman
Deadline on Nov. 14, 2013
Result: Won via breathless disqualification (for recyling) (no verse dropped)




Week 7
Topic:

Posted on Nov. 7, 2013
Result: Beat Vulgar 7-1


Chicago, 1974

Photograph by John H. White

“Would you mind if I took a picture?”

Lester had the rock knuckles. Dry skinned, with the creamsicle polo.
And street charisma. Scene stealing when he preened in the photo,
with a hand full of gel caps. Half-fiend, fueled by his dreaming in proto-,
the only path he knew was the L tracks. A walking ode to the motto
“Play the hand your dealt.” In turn this street was the road that he’d follow
to which he deemed as his dojo, lessons soaked through the bottle.
Earned his stripes, for dolo, although most the ribbons were Blue Pabst,
and half the trash was lotto tickets he scratched and tall necks he threw back,
driving his El Camino through the grotto, now riddled with new jacks.
It was his block. And he knew that.

Marlon walked as a bundle of tics. Bumbling. He fumbled with wit.
His tongue unequipped for quips and hand unfit with stumbling writ.
Described as happy, actually naïve. Comfortably numb to the shit.
Actively looking for passive relief, Summer time basked in reprieves,
looking for a good time regardless of the number of quids.
Relapsed. Lost to the beat, as addicted as any addict that breathed.
He just passed through the streets. Grasped to the ridge.
Simple. Getting high enough to ignore the past that he lived,
Boundless. Loosely wound, street walking as a fountain of nerves,
in his only pair of jeans, and a yellow sweater he found on the curb.

Smoke curled in poofs. Bar tattered, same as the roof.
Conversation unfurled uncouth. Bar talk, chattered lies same as the truth.
Lester, one seat. Marlon the next. One confident, the other was less.
The lame, and the spur of the boot. Next to one another in front of the booths.
Depressed, midday drinking. What else is there to do?
Slunk in his seat, Marlon turns. “Hey, can I bum a square?”
“Sure, kid” Lester thumbs his pair of jeans and pulls a marb one Hundred, bare.
“I’ll smoke one with you.”

As soon as they’re out the door it’s
“Would you mind if I took a picture?”
“Sure, kid.”
And it’s a Pulitzer for John H. White, for the still that he’d get
of two people who had never met,
aside from a cigarette, a neighborhood, and skin that’s tinted.
For a newspaper that probably wouldn’t waste the text to have their obits printed.



Week 6
Topic: "Maybe next time, I'll make a right instead of a left" (as the last line of the verse)
Posted on Nov. 1, 2013
Result: Won via NYCSPITZ no-show


Hamlet.

Nothing to see. He had ample neurosis.
He shuffled his feet and sampled the dosage,
holding a picked apart bouquet. A stranger, emoting
with unrequited handfuls of roses, hydrangeas and posies,
as they started to fray. Neither staying or going.
Brown haired and bland. Staid. Laid in a stasis, no motion.
Filling out forms. Faceless. Interesting, but boring.
Lame tasteless prude. With the same face as you,
Refined, but gaudy. 21st century snoring zombie.
A walking grey, beige, and blue origami.
Surfing the same site, just refreshing the page
all night. F5 worn out, each tap repressing a rage
until the next session of 'Day'. Porned out.
Picking between Gianna or 'Gauge: Sex in a Cage"
Between Jack or Jameson. Lessons, or daze.
Pappy Mason in plaid, minus success and vision,
charisma and pay. Picking contacts to text,
and eventually leaving 'Send' unpressed.
An imprint without impression. Joy Division.
Confidently guessing, with no decision.
He's just there. A voided prism.
A Religious man, with no soul within him.
A waste of potential, but not.
Every choice avoided, suspended and stopped,
on his death bed where every breath is a cough
to no audience. His little equity bereft
speaking his last words,
"Maybe next time, I'll make a right instead of a left"



Week 5
Topic:

Posted on Oct. 23, 2013
Result: Beat breathless 7-0


Austin White - 2013

He preferred black and whites, the dark and drab,
and a Blick palette knife for the arts he'd tag
on naked concrete slabs. Crouched in faded jeans,
spraying slouched maître d's with empty shopping bags
who pout "Delaying the Dream"; he popped the caps
like an aerosol fiend, free, sovereign, brash;
a student of Banksy's themes with a backlog racked
with the pain he'd seen; depressed, his coffee black
painting life on subway cabs to Mogwai tracks.
He dreamed, with the duress of a suppressed insomniac,
of sunlit days filling causeway cracks with vestiges sprayed
with mirth, that his melancholy message'd change,
free to express his form away from these desolate days on Earth.
An addict to sedatives. The way it worked; he'd inject then plunge,
then nightwalk. Pick through his bottles, each separate one,
and stalk his sidewalks to pick the next section done.
And that's how, on the wrong night with the right cop, weapon drawn,
he'd set upon his next path, of somber mannerisms
during a couple years in jail, for a drug charge and vandalism.

He stared, affixed and straight, to one wall of the cell
of the six by eight, and ignored the waveless minute's wake
where he was accosted to dwell. He kept to his own,
cleared his dinner plate, and welcomed this home.
When the lights would quell, he sat cross legged on the cot,
stare still affixed, and imagined the sights he'd spell
with his grips on a valve, dispelling his thoughts.
He'd mime the motions. The diagonals and cross thatches,
odd patterns, new shades and gloss patches;
he grew. Gave to new palettes. The freedom of blues and reds,
off hues of grasses. Revived, he exhumed the dead,
and let go of sadness and the misused guile of his art,
picturing depth in joy, and he smiled in the dark.
Pastures of wheat, oak trees grew in his sleep,
he'd imagine them on that wall, those square miles of park.
Plying his trade, without touching a lid,
just through rewinding his brain. He loved through his bid,
and left with only one tag; signing his name
on the best piece that he ever did.





Week 4
Topic: Salt
Posted on Oct. 17, 2013
Result: Won via Shogun Dinero no-show


Salt.

Like similac, a statuette colored of mildew on ash,
opaque, but on sunny days it's like seeing through glass,
a still life silhouette with borderlines thin as your lash
the same hue that's cast after the kindling's scratched,
on a Dead Sea's shore, an ode to the wicked, the crass,
the scorned. Visible across the fjord as a witness to wrath,
now garden borne, slave to the minutes that pass,
the waves that'd crash, and the thunder's tinnitus claps.
Martyr to those of a similar path. A model, explorer.
The Godless emoji, fraught with modern impatience;
"What with Lot walking so slowly..." God isn't patient.
Turncoat curiosity, "Just one more look at Sodom, Gomorrah."
And then, the whiff of iodized salt. The simplest twist.
There's no parable. No lesson learned, presented as gift.
Just another stupid bitch, another poem, and someone who didn't exist.



Week 2
Topic: "When you win, nothing hurts" — Joe Namath
Posted on Oct. 4, 2013
Result: Lost to King Ra. 5-3


Letter #4/Imagination
When you win, nothing hurts.

Letter #4
"Nikole,

Your attention wanes. The last three of these I spelled in vain,
left unresponsive towards your weathervane.
Tepid, ensconced in my own predicate nonsense,
I sift through your 'Okay' and 'K' menagerie posits,
perched and so lofted,
to find a glimmer of chance. I'm Godless.
I'm rereading periods and pauses. Editing my myriad of clauses,
taking your speech as the gospel,
and looking for meaning in the brief responses I'm lost in.
Do you recognize my opining? I'm not trying to drink.
Or mention drink in my rhymes. But you make me blink,
and sink into wine. And recall those past plotted lines
of our teens in my blacked out rewinds.
I can't outlast you.
A casted shell over a meditative yolk
eventually breaks. So I meant every sentiment spoke,
every message, mention, insensitive joke,
negative blow, and sentence I wrote,
so long as it garnered a reaction,
even some menial poke,
to see for one more time our residue's glow.
Even as a bluer flame. Just to know you still knew my name"

Imagination
Every word's a success.
We lay in rest, my hands in tresses,
no longer restless.
This is how it works.
I opined and pained,
and through the sleight of hand of my refrains
I feel the touch of skin,
supple, thin. My worth, a forgotten apple rot,
is gone,
You're back, and the pain is an afterthought.
__________________
I'm just swinging swords strictly based on keyboards, unbalanced like elephants and ants on seesaws.
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