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Old 12-27-2015, 06:32 PM   #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 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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