12-27-2015, 06:32 PM | #1 |
Mad fucking dangerous.
Join Date: Jul 2013
Posts: 12,072
Battle Record: 40-19
Champed - AOWL Season 3
- Art of Writing League (2x)
Rep Power: 85899402 |
Season 4 champion: dead man
dead man had a rough start to Season 4 of the Art of Writing League, the kind of start that wasn’t unexpected given his recent history with the league. He started 2-2, with a very tough loss to NYCSPITZ and a loss because he wrote short against Certain. He then became unbeatable. He finished the season 7-3, winning one regular-season title but no-showing for his third loss. Come playoff time, though, he was focused and won his three matches by a combined total of 15-3. In doing so, he became the first person to win two end-of-season championships in the Art of Writing League, having claimed Season 1 as well. Season championship Topic: Lay to Rest Posted on March 5, 2015 Result: Beat NYCSPITZ 7-3 fade out and here i am. back to my senses stovetop benedict and ashes for breakfast marble credenza, hardwood under carpeted floors office fluorescent. carving copies til the carbon absorbs i feel like i was here all night. honest, i swore to god i woke up bedside at 11:04 to phone alarms and rapping knuckles pounding the door calling as the raven did, so quoteth Lenore opened it to emptiness save plaster and mortar mattresses, apartment building :: caskets and morgue death has other cousins in a relative form blinked twice. shook it off. man, this fucking disorder has me paralyzed. sterilized like needle exchanges sleep in chains. awaken free of them with ice in my veins bruises on my collarbone. mysterious pains recollecting memories like thoughts from a grave let me stay. perhaps nowadays i'll sleep for a change wait. that's not right. it's almost sure i've been fading in and out. without a doubt. seriously. maybe who knows. leave me alone. i've got nothing to say nothing to offer. nothing critical and nothing of praise i'm stuck. recluse afraid of darkness casting a shade shoulder blade a demon haven. drag me away woke up bloody yesterday and couldn't explain why i felt this way. searched for scratches or scrapes made myself a plate of maple ham and potatoes sat and concentrated so it wouldn't escape straining for an image to recapture the frames like swinging nets at butterflies blindfolded. it fades gray matter destined for preemptive decay, let me rewind otherwise it's just a matter of time. my clock is faceless grandfather towers over with a bend in his spine crushing us like table grapes when pressure's applied "NODONTDIE" smeared in soap scum in the mirror beside a set of vertical lines. tally marks in perfect alignment stickmen on their sides, unrecognizable signs collapsed and cried. bit my cheeks into a fleshy disgrace to stop myself from falling asleep. or staying awake? one of the 2. i wonder what i wanted to do before insomnia blues. a carton of reds, a carton of blues narcotic narcoleptic gnarled like harvested roots remind me why i'm talking to you? here's the truth i'm gentle, calculated, anxious, thoughtful, concise jolting into consciousness caressing a knife that's all i know. i'm sorry. i've been fading, you said cliffhanging off the voice in my head knuckles on my door. open, close, rinse, repent fade in and here i am. next to you, while you rest Playoff semifinals Topic: Posted on April 23, 2015 Result: Beat UnbornBuddha (also known as Godcomplex) 4-0 what a shame. you were always my favorite. we discovered and roamed pressed blood, vowed to never leave the other alone called eachother on our very first cellular phones our parents bought on wells & monroe. let it be known my best memories are listening to next episode, barbecues in parking lots and alleys and roads cement grove baseball diamonds using puddles or stones to signify like dumpsters set together as goals it's safe to say i loved you, friend. dearly departed years after that apartment. adolescent adults stole your mom's cigarettes straight out of the carton breaking what they told us just to see the results construction sites, the latest nights we couldn't resist games of SKATE. 50/50 grinds and varial flips holy shit. what a trip just to remember the times when December was a pine tree we threw off of the side of your balcony in January, presents we'd buy for our families at Osco with allowance and dimes i sigh again and listen to the music we'd play sitting on the porch during our winter vacation with nothing to say. only time to waste gracefully before we "took advantage" of a beautiful day it happened so fast. i can hardly recall how hastily you vanished once the hospital called i wonder what she thought would happen? nurse in the hall stealing opiates to shoot into her stomach and arms we knew your mom was alcoholic. mine was the same it all changed inside the pop of a vein. they cut you off your number disconnected and we lost what we gained lost everything your father could claim. you never called or wrote. or logged into AIM. no one to blame you left the state for shelter from a toxic arrangement re: bruises when she felt disobeyed. knuckles and canes showing up at playgrounds sporting fractures and sprains all you ever said was everything was okay and we believed you. i believed you cause whatever you'd say was honest. maybe childhood is remembered that way what a shame. even after all the wrinkles we've gained i recognize your shadow as we wait for this train. it feels like winter break again with nothing to say so i wait. staring silently. still anxious with age my mind is playing games. maybe? maybe i'm sane and haven't fallen towards seniority's grave. a spectral gray hear the train. you're Platform A. I'm at C. what a shame to wallow in self-consciousness the homeless sustain. light a cigarette and watch you walking away choking back a breath to call your government name your suit and tie. i'm crucified on smack and cocaine twitching tumor brain. all my circuits are frayed so i let the train pass and hear your memory fade i followed in your mother's path you'd be so ashamed. Playoff quarterfinals Topic: "The revolution has always been in the hands of the young." — Huey Newton Posted on April 7, 2015 Result: Beat Dr Dog (also known as Split Eight) 4-0 my father left home before becoming a man at age 16. hugged his brother once and hopped in his van pseudo Kerouac freelance pursuing faraway lands 36-cent cigarettes and 6-string case in his hand Aunt Susie at rehearsal. swan lake. nightingale dancing while their parents sat in leather loveseats, emptying glasses stony mansion. Lincoln park. late 60's grainy refraction interior designers and a maid for the mattress full-time indentured babysitter paid for distraction who taught my papa language in her Englewood accent my father left home without a word of goodbye to the man who taught him hate and how to fasten a tie made him cut his ponytail and straighten his spine curling fists like snarling lips to bridge the divide private schools and jaguars for saturday's ride slacks and loafers, cherrywood the hallways inside a home supported by pride. whiskey wisdom and wine Grandma took her misery on rocks with a lime her oldest son left without a thought on his mind fighting back teardrops as he shifts into drive found himself Milwaukee-bound and feeling alive locked the motel door. laid in bed and he cried for the sake of ventilation. 2 parents, 20 patients psychiatrists with offices and bars in their basement wealthy vagrants. thin oasis next to Michigan sands less generational gap. more so distant attachment it was Summertime in June when all the flowers are bright perfuming 2-wheel voyages back home every night Grandpa smashed the records that my father would buy Beatles vs. Beethoven when the volume was high i was taught that you can never run away from your past less shape-shift, and more so generational gap my father gigged the city for a pocket of cash my childhood was microphones and ashtrays and amps but fleeing from his father was a father-to-be i can't forget November 4th, 2003 we watched my Grandpa die inside a hospital sheet telling papa he had tried to be the best he could be held hands. their silence echoing as loud as a scream staring at each other. lost inside of a dream they were nothing alike but shared this moment the same there's no one to blame. the only constant is change so they say. acculturated in a spectrum of gray children never follow everything their fathers will say my son left home the other day and never returned while i sat inside the basement with a camel to burn drowned in office politics and woodford reserve marveling how everything continues to turn in circular swerving motions on a singular spoke revolving repetitive via youth in revolt. Playoffs Round 1 Bye Week 12 Topic: All Our Yesterdays Result: Week was canceled because of an extended site outage; dead man was to face Witty Week 11 Topic: "Behavior is what a man does, not what he thinks, feels, or believes." — Emily Dickinson Posted on Jan. 5, 2015 Result: Beat CopyPat 8-0 we kissed greedily outside the bar on Wellington Ave spit and sweat and snowflakes and the horn of a cab our secretive dance. the distant flirt was growing perverse settled for each other cause we've settled for worse homeward bound. ye olde corolla put the rev in reverse drop you off before the storm. exchanging sets to rehearse you're a close second. i'm a competitive first at cultivating loyalty then breaking its curse love hurts and so does opiate withdrawal at noon clearing out my throat so i can talk to a room of absentees and silent, absent-minded recluses preoccupying their uselessness. the wandering youth so I'm talking to you. bar stools & Estee Lauder perfume you're evidence in leggings, i've got nothing to prove the happiness we sought is but a common pursuit of a couple kids who rarely put their conscience to use traveled half the world to rediscover some truth all it gave me was a tolerance boost. vodka and juice bourbon and water. worms to the slaughter, squirming in vain babysit your daughter while you search for a vein a study in redundancy: we've learned to be trained to lust with unconditional regard for the pain for those affected. consequence, discord, disarray disappeared in the second that i saw you today dishonor, betrayal, monorails, we're hailing a cab instead of waiting for the train to stop at Wellington Ave Week 9: Championship match Topic: “Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.” — Edgar Allan Poe Result: No-show loss to Zen Week 8: Championship match Topic: Posted on Nov. 20, 2014 Result: Beat Certain 6-1. i wandered for days. weeks, months, its hard to explain like staring at the mountains when you're lost in the rain its part of the game. you die, you win. and losing's a bitch machete crack. vines twist like executioner wrists crawling through the darkness during lunar eclipse all i wanted was to find him. just to prove he exists traversed sewers. ancient ruins. arctic glacial conditions everybody else relaxed at home and prayed for their children to survive an extinction. even daily traditions never made me a christian. angel-dusted patriotism so break this daily bread and fall to your knees ill be walking the trees. wheezing for a moment's reprieve marshy undergrowths the chalk water often recedes from another pile of glass. another carcass to grieve marching onward. the guillotine has started to lean pressure on my jugular like counting the beat doctorate degrees. coffee or tea? apartment was leased nodding off, junkie jazz musician zombie regime settling for gossip and agnostic agreeance while iron-wrought Catholicism rots in my genes in foggy distance it bleeds. stone column theological being architectural. spirit sensual, apostle pristine beyond the wall. this hostile shade of harvested green i just.. wanted to see if i could ever feel better stairwell curves like spinal tap or necks in a nod or rail tracks connecting southern Paris to Prague forest temple. mossy monument. cemented facade echoes in the hallway like a rippling pond walkway lined with demon statues sinful as god so i'm reminded how our shamans share a sensitive bond wooden doors like yacht floors. oily hinges and knob entering. calm, collected, resolved. and wait for salvation i fell to my knees. waited for grace with sweat in my palms sweat on my brow. head in the clouds, confessing it all i waited to fall. to burn or brighten. rise or descent waited a moment. got to my feet and silently wept for the time and effort, miles and sacrifices and debt only to collect another pang of regret recollecting passages in pages we read inhaled. tried to cry and started laughing instead.. thats faithfulness. to take indoctrination in jest without a journey destinations never make any sense its relationships. not eucharist. no vision or portals i've lost so many people i've considered immortal recognized, its not important. I'm no more than a tourist, made aware of all the beauty in this forest. free at last Week 7: No. 1 contender match Topic: "I have to believe in a world outside my own mind. I have to believe that my actions still have meaning, even if I can't remember them. I have to believe that when my eyes are closed, the world's still there. Do I believe the world's still there? Is it still out there? Yeah. We all need mirrors to remind ourselves who we are. I'm no different." Posted on Nov. 14, 2014 Result: Beat Dominate 7-1 LOOK motion picture, broken image solving sensory proofs metaphysical rooted in solipsistic pursuit this moment is a stone inside a temporal loop revolving incessantly til you're ready to puke set it free. put the needle to the record, regroup so quickly, one can never quite remember the truth magnolia bloom. rain droplets on the window at noon there's more beauty in perception than in bending a spoon more medicine in movement than in blazing a pack and more echo in the void than a creationist rant not yet brains in a vat. more like a chain of reactions shaken awake. give me destiny. vocation or passion choose one: birth a consequence mistaken for chance dendritic dance. reaching outward like the maplewood branch we had in the yard. it can't be only static and charge all rational thought encased in theoretical jars Being here is simple, but duality's hard faulty logic. bipolarity. Aladdin / Jafar think tank fallacy. close your eyes and tease it apart freedom is to operate machines in the dark wake up in a room, no recollection at all of you who are. only letters on a fleshy collage are you anything at all? except a memory, flawed by retroactive bias and a sense of withdrawal remember who you are. theres no foundation or floor storybook interpretation, no relation, no source no allegorical caves where shadows dance on the walls what Plato and Descartes and even Heidegger saw phenomenon, reduction towards a central facade way beyond the safety of molecular bonds let it fall away. reduce yourself to a thought bring to fruition, everything. and thats where we start: SEE Week 6 Topic: Still Alive Posted on Nov. 8, 2014 Result: Beat timeless 5-0 empty and dry. stale cherrywood, ashen or pine cold breath. pitch black. half paralyzed heart beat like thunderbolts. sawdust in my skin recalling who i am but not quite sure of where or when jar of hearts. heart of sin. amassed a lengthy collection of bridges burning. different shapes, or dimensions. its raining above i feel it drain in the mud. spongy wet like labia buds to perpetuate the cycle - we decay. in a tux polished nails, copper bells. scented with toxins leather shoes you only feel when kicking the coffin so heavy, this oxygen. lived shoveling perpetual dogshit gave it back, hit the road and got arrested in Boston cleared of all charges. cross the street, get assaulted comatose like motorboats asleep in the waters reaching harbor, half-rotted. screamed, still nobody's arrived so let the sense subside. smiling cause we never will die. Week 5 Topic: Piece of My Heart Posted on Oct. 30, 2014 Result: Beat Three-Planes-Aligned 6-3 bloodletter compulsions. red and silky and warm if we film it its porn. dripping as the camera records indulging in juices for 20 minutes or more let it fall, Berlin wall, lick it off of the floor sacrificial at its source like crucifixes or swords delicious as dinner at any Hilton resort craving endlessly from Ashland to the sands of Milan grease and oil like standing near a tanning salon thicker than tomato sauce but half as exotic its primal eroticism. animal process. collective hunter-gatherer conscious stacking bread, all that nonsense. whether cheddar or swiss the final result is looking sexy as shit sink my teeth in. muscles tighten, sinewy snap ever had an orgasm in your intestinal tract? let your vessels relax. lettuce light the medical hash tastebuds are the center of this fleshy romance satisfied, no strings attached. i mean, whats better than that? i feel like Kevin in class. anxious, asking Wendy to dance sensory trance. the scent is sentimental, in fact so i'm eating out for days til i've digested that ass let it melt down into plastic on linoleum chairs were making love in public here but nobody cares open affair. napkins and trays. collaborative stains i'm a connoisseur, grillmaster and an addict the same that familiar grinding itch inside the back of my brain begging me to hit the nearest fast-food chain and i know it isn't over til i'm dead as a rock even that last triple bypass couldn't get me to stop the art of burger, call it murder - tease it apart, lost a piece of my heart in a diner down in Jefferson Park wax paper transparent at our greasy departure bleeding ulcers. eye sockets probably couldn't be any darker eat your heart out, she said to me, and wandered along so here i sit. in ecstasy and artery clog Week 3 Topic: Posted on Oct. 25, 2014 Result: Lost to NYCSPITZ 7-2 see i want to feel anxiety. terror and paranoia acid and serotonin. sodium. snacks and a pair of sodas relax and watch a genocide across the pacific eye of the tiger, mind of a murderer, heart of a critic snipers on the rim get your binoculars fast check the choppers crash cliffside. suede-jacket bomber advance imagination gravitate towards concept and action its not complicated as long as you allow it to happen flower blossom planted. tall-grass garden, Alice the Wunderkind film-reel photographic trigger my nostalgia for summertime rubber button. rewind. scenery and months of rehearsal my views idealistic. my remote, universal i want to witness death and grieve but only pretend conquer Rome for a century. wander home at the end campfire counsel. oak, hibiscus, soldiers at 7 mercenaries at 20 and all hungover at breakfast jumping over gorges in a Porsche 911 its believable once madness is the source of your method script draft prescription medicine distorting perception horses gallop in formation at the floor of the crescent barefoot at the pond where frogs are captured in jars until reality calls. the focus shifts, the channel is paused i want to feel adventure. feel mortality, danger gunslinger. travel east where thunder claps in a chamber katana fights in autumn where the skies burn red lose my mind with the assurance i can find it again if all in all, we're bricks for walls, it's gonna be fine once it grows too overwhelming you can cover your eyes if all in all, we're bricks for walls, it's perfectly right cause we can paint the surface any color we like Week 2 Topic: "With a bit of luck, his life was ruined forever." Posted on Oct. 10, 2014 Result: Lost to Certain 5-0 Yo fuck the economy Dog I won the lottery But all these people lied to me Id rather live in poverty Everybody's hand out, asking for a dollar Asking for a lambo or a Porsche or an impala Bro, I don't have it so no you can't get it Look at what I've lost. Nah, look what I've invested All my friends are mooches that take me for a joke That luck has sucked my happiness. Id rather just be broke Week 1 Topic: Posted on Oct. 2, 2014 Result: Won via Rawn MD no-show lady in waiting, lady in red. i'll be watching horizons making the bed while you wash your vagina comfortable silence is a mantra we hide in your screams, the song of a siren. often misguided i'm not the brightest bulb, you're dawn at the beach your rose is in bloom. that holy water recedes until blood rushes through your petal blossom, the leak as a monthly reminder that we are free. parents to none, daughter and son, cotton and cum lay a towel down and fuck until we're numb. god bless
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I'm just swinging swords strictly based on keyboards, unbalanced like elephants and ants on seesaws. |
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