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Old 11-19-2014, 02:56 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 3 champion: Certain



If dead man and PancakeBrah didn't have strange enough paths to Art of Writing League season championships, consider Certain's. First of all, he was moderating the season all by himself. He didn't even intend to sign in because of his heavy workload, particularly with magazines and also with his actual paying job, but lack of participation in Week 6 led to him signing in as part of a successful push to regalvanize the league. His regular-season was very up and down, fairly represented by his 5-5 record. But by the end of the season, he was hitting a hot streak as the playoffs started. Then final regular-season champion zygote and 5-0 Zombie were among those to decide to skip the playoffs. Then PancakeBrah, Vulgar, patrown, Frank, Three-Planes-Aligned (as Johnathan Mercy) and Mike Wrecka all no-showed in the first two rounds of the tournament. Still, Certain had a respectable slate in beating oats and then dominating King Ra. and YDK for the championship, and he continued that winning streak to start Season 4.


Season championship
Topic:

Posted on July 30, 2014
Result: Beat YDK 8-2


Look at the colors. Green means life, I suppose.
The slabs of granite, tight in rows,
show everything we take for granted, quite composed.
In the shot, there's hints of light, exposed,
but the background fades to blur. I'd guess that's wasted Earth.
I'd guess that's space reserved for the plight of those
who indulge in such trite repose, such tasteless work.

Dear "River Acheron" (a name that's probably not what it seems
as my Google search says that's a body of water in Greece),

Fuck you.

If it's not already obvious, please, let me offer you all I can see
in this photographic atrocity, that you signed with a digital flourish:
• I get the limited toning, close in on the pivotal moment.
That's exactly what ever other novice with a DSLR did with their focus.
• I'm seeing the rule of thirds, background divided to balance it out,
yet you've washed away everything in the sky's tint and matted the clouds.
• There's beauty in flowering fauna, the bud's growth to the seed head,
which is why dandelions are the favorite plants of most of the Pre-K.
• And then there's that signature, a brazen credit anointed in scripture,
but why would you put it across the lone focal point of your picture?

See, your composition is poor, subject matter unceasingly trite.
But you've made it big, River! Front page on the Deviant site.
Yes, it's teaming with bright, young, bookish media types
who hope their lame, broke clichés become desktop wallpaper.
Meanwhile, never seeing the light of day, these desperate art majors
slave over true beauty, inscribed in unpublished Descartes papers.
This Internet culture has delineated the path to success
is throwing up whatever you can as fast as you can, prepackaged and sent.
Reprints and Photoshops have won over this pantomime
where genius gets strangled by weeds.

Artistic dandelions.



Playoff semifinals
Topic: The Route of All Evil
Posted on July 14, 2014
Result: Beat King Ra. 5-0


The yellow tape means she's already dead. You've already lost.
Harbinger cause announcing effect, out of respect.
Now it's the neck starting to throb.
Next it's that tremor in your hands — no, it's not in your hands.
The ounces of sweat, down to your chest.
All of your plots and your plans tossed in the can.
Isn't it obvious that logic says the more honest the man,
the more likely he is to be hobbled again?

The sobriquet: reports at 10. Evening news. Bedtime blues.
The caveat crawls into a calloused coma: death by fugue.
My state is surrounded by drowning. A river runs through it;
your little lungs knew it would be a physical nuisance
but still insisted we try. Could've stayed dry,
but there's land beyond the ransom letters that litter the drive.
Check the escape hatch. Did any spirits survive?
Bereavement's contrived, part of a culture that tosses grieving aside.
Two vacation checks to lay to rest all of our deepest good-byes,
then we're back on the beach for another weekend of lies.

The sanctuary pews do offer a cushion to kneel,
yet too often we're absconding for a push of the needle.
Cautionary losses: Sell the stock at its peak.
But while we're rushing to deal, loyal to options and leaks,
they roll our souls out for the optimum lease.
It's obvious we're not up to speed. Trampled and bent
as we fight our way back up the same hills their mansions attend.
Saddled with debt, we've got our headphones turnt.
Beats By Dreams. The bass ensures the end won't hurt.
Release and breathe. Speed through seas with the engine loud.
But please return to your seat before the exits crowd.

Now let's return to the scene. First, shed a tear for the Vine
and find that right darkened filter for an Insta-feelings confide.
Yes, she's gone now. But was she ever here or a lie?
You'd be surprised at what a mirror can hide.
So we're driving. This broken path so wearily winds.
So we're driving. The plains make plain we're reaching the sky.
No, we're not driving. Never were. Losing what's real.
The route of all evil runs right over us. We're too numb to feel.



Playoff quarterfinals
Topic: “We cannot wait for the storm to pass over. We must learn to dance in the rain.”
Posted on July 9, 2014
Result: Beat oats 4-3


It's raining at Church of the Redeemer's cemetery.

"To Jessica, my beautiful baby daughter ..."

She's twisting her ankle nervously, heel digging deep in the mud. The lack of sleep has her bugged. Trying to be at peace. Wistful but acting earnestly, she listens to the sermon. Steps in closer to her boyfriend, Todd. But Todd's emotions are avoided, lost in those sexy eyes, deep-set, like depths of oceans. Her mascara's dripping. She's crying, sure. But mostly she forgot a hat. The timing's poor. She has a job interview tomorrow. Going to get a line of work that maybe he would've been proud of. Youngest child, sure. But she thinks of his smile. Thinks of his storytelling style and if he were the one delivering this eulogy that finds her bored.

"To Timothy, my dutiful only son ..."

He's straightening his tie again, messing with the alignment pin. Trying to keeps his eyes off the sight of him. Spitting image now within spitting distance of his future. Sure enough, men in this family always died in bed. Dignified, they said. More like, sad and lonely and alone all to keep a sense of pride, he guessed. He's seeing his own demise ahead. Gripping a that tie. Dad had given him it for graduation. High school. He'd taken pride in him. Taught him the Windsor knot. All of the fancier ones were quickly forgot. Tim figured one was enough, never had his dad's distinct panache. But he did take his instincts for people, enough to know most of those here were thin in their grief.

"To Sandra, my first-born and brightest ..."

She's counting the heads. Doesn't really remember anyone's name but wants out of this mess. She's remembering how she had fled, moved to California not because of her dad but because of the mounting of stress. Everyone here. She remembered the faces more than the names. Chorus of lames, boringly rambling through a service ordained as necessary by a religion she never had given into believing. Don't get her wrong, though, as she watched mud fling over the casket, she remembered the time dad had built up her tree house right over the hammock. And she'd slipped off and got her wrist caught in the rope. And the cast went on right before softball season. So that whole winter, once she was healthy, Dad took off on weekends and soft-tossed her balls so she could make the middle school team rather than giving up. But she ended up getting cut by her sophomore year.

"And to Dolores, my wonderful wife of 28 years ..."

She's here alone. Everyone's here, yes. But she's here alone. Supposedly grieving. She sees three people she half-recognizes and a bunch of acquaintances. And the casket's been lowered so there's nothing to say to him. She's here alone. She's supposed to be crying. Broken for four days, clutching a rosary tight. She pulls closer to Jessica, Timothy, Sandra and listens as the pastor delivers with somber tones each ribbon and honor. And that's when she knows she'll go on living without him.



Playoffs Round 1: Poem Title Challenge
Posted on June 28, 2014
Topic: The Genius of the Crowd
Result: Won via El Pancake no-show


Jennifer really likes the mojitos at the open bar
and that tan guy on the deck with the torso scar.
She's played coy so far, but a cruise is no place for inhibition.
At least, that's what Amber told her when she paid for the tickets.
Birthday gift. And Jenny, you're turning 39 again, right?
Might as well let loose and ... what's that beep coming from that lead pipe?

"Oh my God! Oh my God! It's a BOMB!"

Dave nearly trips on a towel as he rushes forward.
Flips his sunglasses up. "Don't panic, people. There's nothing for it."
Not yet, at least. He lunges toward the back of the deck.
Can't exactly trust that blonde's detective skills no matter her legs.
Dave briefly imagines rubbing her down with tanning lotion
until he sees the planned explosive jammed inside the captain's bulkhead.
Security chief, sure. But Dave isn't some SWAT team member.
He'd taken this cushy job after retiring from a desk gig last September.
He looks to the ground as passengers huddle for better views and gasp together.

"Excuse me. Are there any engineers onboard?"

Greg looks around. Apprehensive. Knowing it's electric.
Knowing he took four courses back at Cal Tech as electives.
Already sweating, Greg staggers forth. "Well, I'm a civic specialist."
Yet, with their receptiveness, Greg knows he has the floor.
He takes one look at the pipe and sees it's all connected,
No easy solution to throw it offboard. Greg scans the exits.
Hand is trembling as he checked the wiring for a planned dissection
but sees a blue and a white and knows any mistake will land a death wish.

"I don't know. I don't know. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry."

Joe pushes past Dave to the fore of the crowd.
"Whaddaya got here?" Greg tries to explain, but Joe's ignoring him now.
"Da way I see it, we gots tree options if this Einstein tries and can't fix it.
One, we could cram into da tiny lifeboat and prolly die with da fishes.
Two, we could wait for help, close our eyes and make wishes.
Tree, we could break this thing 'n' hope it stay broke, but, aye, I don't know physics."
Dave steps up for a second, but Joe's eyes advise him to listen.
"So I say we oughta take votes. Show of hands. Raise 'em high if you're with me."
The others comply with a grimace. Joe turns back to Greg and smiles with sickness.

"Aye, kid, whaddaya doin'? Get away from there!"

Taryn runs up to the bunkhead. His Lego set shattered when he dropped it.
He still has a towel on his shoulders, his wet hair matted, thick, knotted.
Emily chases her son fast, but Taryn reaches the wall.
Presses a button on the other end, tiny arm reaching underneath the facade.



Week 16 title match
Topic:

Posted on June 14, 2014
Result: Lost to zygote 7-1


Stray dogs roved the streets in the days after the flood,
slathered in mud, tearing through trash as they scavenged for grub.
Marshall law had taken the city, but government salvage was done.
Cowards had run, and most of us left were rather calloused and numb.
Then there was Marco, 12 years old. He's the kid in your picture.
Brown orphan turned street urchin. Used to live with his sister,
but her house was destroyed, split by the river.
So now there's Marco, tired, alone, listening to whispers.

But what is freedom?

The American system teaches us to cherish a vision:
democracy, worthy of a perilous fight to tear us from prisons.
It's inassailable wisdom shared through scriptures of patriots,
who took care of the children of this bric-a-brac nation-state.
Capitalist ethos tells us power for the people
means that every man will have a chance to rise.
But you can't disguise this hourglass.
We're worker ants designed to bow our backs
until the time is up and we can't supply the labor force.
But we're in the land of the free, even as the tables turn,
and the housing market rises. And salaries deflate.
It's an entire modern generation putting our degrees to waste.
I'll never own a home. I'll never pay my student loans.
My life insurance probably won't even cover the funeral home.
So I'm forced into vagrancy, drifting from rent to rent.
And I haven't put away a cent for my pension yet.
I've lived in four states in the past five years — unsettlement —
and keep my boxes packed but flag high. A real American.

So now there's Marco, tired, alone, huddled by the fire, reposed.
He's seen enough to understand he's finally home.



Week 15 contender match
Topic: You’re a homeless musician who plays outside of a train station for tips. One day, someone leans over and drops something unusual into your case.
Posted on June 7, 2014
Result: Beat cyph her 7-0


Let's get this story line all straight. First, time and place:
The day was June third, nineteen ninety-eight,
and I was playing outside the subway stop at Ninth and Lake.
Can't remember if night or day. Well, I guess it was kind of late
because my violin case was lightly weighed down by piles of change.
That's when this man walked by and gave me the wildest gaze
and dropped this rolled-up piece of paper in and smiled and waved.
I acknowledged with a nod but all the while I played,
with no idea what would lie in wait.

Directions. The first was to make a beeline on Lake.
Turn right at the antique shop with the window stacked with china plates.
Finally, wade across that awful traffic circle on Pine and take
a right to a private residence's doorstep. Number five-oh-eight.
(Why'd I follow? Well, the directions came inscribed with grace,
scripted letters promising a prize to take.
Now, I might play a violin for dimes, but I'm no starry-eyed kind of lame.
So I approached with skepticism. Wrote a letter, left it hidden.
Just in case I'd end up missing, this would assign the blame.)

Anyway, I approach the residence, quickly pry the gate.
Knock four times on the door, as the eighth line explains.
It flies open, like some dime-store game magic trick.
I roll my eyes and wait.
The guy, the one who dropped the paper off, comes out from behind a drape.
"Welcome, Terrence. Come inside. There's no time to waste.
He's awaiting you. He's been waiting for so long to find you."
"Wait."
"Yes?"
"Who exactly is this guy who hides his face?"
Now at this point, the other guy just smiled and waved.
He seems to like that. But I'm already this far.
If they wanted me dead, they could easily find a way.
So I just figured, "Sure, why the fuck not?"
But as I walked in, I imagined my own grave.

The room's walls are a dodecagon of mirrors.
They hover there, not reaching to the bottom of the bare floor.
There's a light hanging directly over center, above a chair.
There's no other furniture in the room. There's nothing there.
We're alone: me, the chair and the mirrors.
But as my stomach scares, a voice punctures the air.
"Terrence, thank you for coming. Your face betrays a touch of fear.
But I want to assure you there's nothing to run from, dear."
"Then who are you? Why not just come out here?"
(See, being told I'm safe only makes the discomfort clear.)

"Terrence, I want you to play me a tune.
I don't get out much, but Jeremy tells me you're great on your stoop."
"Umm, well, I didn't bring my violin."
At this point, I'm thinking of bailing on dude,
but a fiddle is lowered from the ceiling. So I figured, I'll take it and prove.
The voice listened. I went with "Danny Boy," a favorite to use
when trying evoke emotion from even the most unsated of fools.
"Terrence," the voice muttered after the final notes had waned and the mood
was somber and chilling and dark and left a weight in the room.
"Terrence, I want to propose an offer."
And that's when he explained it all through:
I was to give him my violin, trade in my tool.
I would never play another note again, so that he could be the last to hear me.
In exchange, he'd give me enough cash for my remaining years.

See, the man behind the voice with the mirror was testing human nature,
and wanted to see if I would abandon my true self for useless paper.
But didn't I already tell you that I'm no stupid pauper?

So I haven't picked up a violin in years, that hobby is dead.
But am I happy? Truly happy?
Well ...
... honestly ...

Yes.



Week 14
Topic: “Leaders need to be optimists.” — Rudy Giuliani
Posted on May 27, 2014
Result: Won via Mike Wrecka no-show


The spirits came to him in the form of a dream
with choral passim, told to gather a quorum and team.
Broken Arrow heard his people's sorrows and screams
and set out to make tomorrow something more than a gleam.
"You must go. Go now, son, and never look back."
The voice set him on destiny's track ahead of the wrath.
So Broken Arrow took his walking stick and the steadiest path,
determined to spread his message to the heads of each clan.

"Brothers, we must not look back! The future sits and waits."
He heard few battle cries. He watched them spit in his face.
But the enemy was coming, coastal towns exposed and found
with savage murders — massacres! — and women choked and bound.
So Broken Arrow navigated his map and built a following,
true men unafraid of this tough pill for swallowing.
The white men were coming west to kill and conquer and
spread their disease and take our land. Pillage, dominance.



Week 13
Topic: From Here to Eternity
Posted on May 23, 2014
Result: Won via Perpendicular no-show


The phrasing of the phrase is framed in such a way
that the place is placed above the time, a space for us to gaze.
It's "From Here to Eternity," not "till" or something linear,
so we're going hunting till we stumble on the cusp's interior.

And we're taking the old country highway.

There's a broken-down shack on the side of the road,
used to fix tires with holes. The owner's retired.
Now what? The shack sits abandoned.
Eras melt off its slate siding, split and vandalized,
There's the old coat of gray paint
from back when gray paint was fashionable.
Back in ninteen-sixty-three, when these stains were maskable.

There's a herd of cows grazing in a field. Herd? Group?
I don't know. They stink. Turds? Poop? The word's moot:
A shit by any other name smells the same.
And even a tipped cow can't tell us if it felt the pain.

And we're taking the Interstate.

There's a sign at the exit. Repainted recently.
Bright golden arches help engage the scenery.
You can smell that fresh air — potatoes, grease and meat
— and for miles the neon buzzes with its display machinery.

There's a minivan stalled off deep in the shoulder.
Mom's calling the tow truck. Dad's trying to keep his composure.
The boys standing in back, with branches they battled.
Fake swords, all because their handhelds ran out of batteries.
But the girl, she's in the car, remembered her charger.
Presumably texting her friends about this mess of her father's.
But she smiles as she looks out at a sunset through the car door.

And we're taking the backstreets.

There's a cul-de-sac with seven houses lining its street
and in the middle is an empty fountain from the time of its peak.
Now the poor neighborhood kids play in its basin, hide-and-go-seek,
and one day realize will everything that they'd find in the heat.

There's a patio with a chair and an ashtray on the ground.
The ashtray's full. The chair is empty.
The wind whips without making a sound.
It turns the leaves, brown now. Once a perfect green.
And that alone means we haven't found Eternity.



Week 12
Topic:

Posted on May 13, 2014
Result: Lost to Vulgar 6-0


Turbulent. I'm an astronomer's envy, head in the skies.
Or at least, there's a cloud ringing around the level of eyes.
They've got me dead to my rights. With expedience,
I test the sex, but she's the greediest-neediest-sleaziest.
Diva shit. My eggnog gets a dash of turmeric. Then soon it gets
brown skin from my father. Assume it skipped generations.
Rendered aphids to keep my lady bugged. Stupid bitch. Paleolithic,
except with radial grips and a remedial grasp of stated linguistics,
'cause I get loose lips when I sink sips down the gates of my instincts.
Territorial. I'm Doctor Doom's henchman. Fated to be stoned by things,
but things fall apart. And the invisible woman's already in my net.
Take another stretch. Bending incredible, yet I'm steadily in debt
and unable to have my bankroll for more than two weeks at a time,
especially if I'm using six eighty-three to sate my needs late in weeks
as I ring smoke around the rosy cheeks. It's not blush — acne, rosacea.
My skin's about to peel off like her cunt after the face-sit.
My bus passenger playlist features drums in savage arrangements,
that thump schematic entertainment that helps distract from your smell.
It's still lingering under my yellowing fingertips, trapped under swells
because I've been typing too much. And my cuticles are burnt up.
And I'm usually burnt up, too,
like the cigarettes. And you.



Week 11
Topic: It'll make a man out of you
Posted on May 10, 2014
Result: Lost to Vividlyvague 5-1


"Greetings! Welcome to Paradiso Springs Life Resort.
On the right concourse, you'll see our wide assortment of wife-consorts.
Paradiso Springs Life Resort offers the finest in
artificial companionship, for hardships in time commits.
This tertiary moon makes pleasure our pledge, sir,
so take a gander at our models. They all endeavor to best serve."

Mat had to scoff at how they used "companionship."
This whore-house of a moon unglued his damages.
"You need this," they said. So he perused the manuscripts,
consumed unhappiness, refused their answers, yet
Mat still felt guilty. His friends had used their last few cents
to put him on this moon for a boost or chance to twist.
He rolled his eyes, snide, and picked the blonde on the right.
"Oh, that's Rayanne! You'll like her. She's soft, honest and kind.
Her hobbies are bikes, walks in the night and peach cobbler delight."

Rayanne's nipples flicked as Mat touched her breasts.
Suppleness. He'd come to rest on the crest of her dimpled hip.
Creamy skin, like butter exposed. He fumbled with clothes.
She had such grace, unencumbered. She rose.
She made it easier, smothered him whole under the glow
of a depleting sun, splashing from the West window.
It was open. And as Mat faced it, Rayanne asleep in his bosom,
he never wanted to leave but wanted to leave as quickly as possible.

Rayanne had been programmed to follow orders.
Mat's were simple: Stay hushed in the trunk of the bus until they'd crossed the border.
Escape: Those three days had made it the only option.
Mat couldn't hold her hostage, but she couldn't say no to stop it.
So the plan was escape.
Escape to sandalwood candles and laminate frames.
The answer was plain. Mat ensured the handler was paid.
Rayanne had never left Paradiso Springs, but the planet was safe.

Mat was holding Rayanne again when the police arrived.
She'd been sick for days, not breathing right, her creamy skin replete with hives.
Mat stared into the streaming light.
Rayanne coughed. She was a pleasure model, built on weekly time.
Mat stared into the deep of night.
"Put the drone down, son, and step away! Read his rights!"
Mat stared into his former peaceful life.



Week 10
Topic: “Life's tragedy is that we get old too soon and wise too late.” — Ben Franklin
Posted on May 3, 2014
Result: Won via Smegma forfeit (with 3-0 lead)


Donny knew happiness wasn't just a state of mind,
but the pills did more than that: They made him high.
So when he popped the blues that pitched his tent,
he'd split and get some pussy.
Come on faces. Spray 'em blind.


I've been married for 40 years. She once had me in deep,
but now her meat curtains flap like a flag in a breeze.
Crow's feet crown her eyes, and the ugliest yet?
She still tans, but now her skin looks like a crusty baguette.
It's disgustingly stretched. I can't even touch her tits
without thinking of how our children made lunch of it.
One of our sons OD'd. Probably trying to avoid
thinking about the time as a boy he saw us grinding with toys.

Yeah, things used to be wild in these Hollywood nights,
but it was time to move on, maybe to that blonde in the tights.
Or how about that saucy Latina? They're only good for a fuck.
Can't pay the bills and blast music from the hoods of their trucks.
But she's got juicy lips, big tits and a craving for blow,
and as the blue pills kick in, my dick's main flavor is dough.
See, kids, the richer the man, the better the ass he gets.
These whores are looking for flashiness and cooking up nasty sex.
I get spanked by hookers with ample breasts while wearing panties.

Then I buy her fur and diamonds and give her front-row seats,
and she has the nerve to show up with one of these?
I mean, seriously, babe, I know you don't love me like Clipse.
But that doesn't mean you go thugging with Clipse.
I mean, what the fuck? Who are these gorillas in my midst?
I gave you prime-time seats to watch my Clips,
and you gave them away to some ex-slaves with humongous dicks.
Let's have a conversation about your disgustingness.

Oh, you were recording?



Week 9
Topic: This Is It
Posted on April 26, 2014
Result: Lost to timeless 5-3


The twisted scar on Willie's left leg is pale and dry,
up from the ankle, scaling his thigh,
still snaring the tendons facing the mine.
He hadn't even tripped the switch that awakened the blast.
No, he was pacing in back of the unit when Dave hit the tract.
They ducked. Some never came up.
The helmets were tombstones,
but Willie pulled his leg out of the mud
with help from the two Joes.
Joe Riley, he'd never forget. He sent his pocket watch to his wife.
Joe Delucca, he'd never forget. He's right across the hall, on the right.

But we're sitting here for now.

That's Norm with the cracked stars and stripes
disbarred by time.
He got the ink while docked at Clark in '9,
must have been drinking hard that night.
Now he looks down at his cards and sighs.
See, he's not moving, not since a scar the size
of a shotgun shell had marked his spine.
The lower half. Norm's paralyzed from toes to back
but slowly drags another chip to the center of the table,
while others fold 'em fast.
The smile leaves his face. He tends to get lonely fast.
Another glance out the window,
but no one passes.

And we'll be sitting here for a while.

Him? Sgt. Jim Rose. Don't forget the "Sgt."
As a commander, an invective hard-ass
who smoked whole menthol cartons.
That came back to bite him. Doesn't it always?
He paces, spins, ducks in these hallways,
unable to sit still, the same tack he'd fight with
in his days among the infantry.
That's when he picked up the habit,
displaced his lungs from symmetry.
And the oxygen tank gets dragged around, its weight so humbly limiting.

But we're sitting here for a reason.

The Marshalltown V.A. Hospital flies a flag, tall in a headwind.
It's there to remind us of all we fought for,
of all we gained,
of all we protected.



Week 8
Topic:

Due on April 18, 2014
Result: Lost to Witty via double no-show




Week 7: Story Lead Challenge
Topic: You are awoken at 3 a.m. by a blindingly bright, enormous light outside your window.
Posted on April 11, 2014
Result: Beat rhetoric 5-3


They were here again last night, Erasers.
I saw them through the window, with their flashlights and tasers.
I managed to play terse, but every call gets tighter
as they leverage all their fighters to track minds unwaivered.
We need vigilance. The truth is dangerous, to them but also us.
We are the runaway slaves, stowed and bestowed with trust.
Their vision is clear: reprogramming the human race
until every man smiles the same smile,
until every man removes his face.
They feed us cocktails, a cup of pills to consume with haste,
and hope the scrambled eggs and juice help excuse the brutal taste.
None for me. I ditch the drugs in a napkin with a pinch
as I draw up another map to freedom, captaining the ship.
We will escape, my comrades. This repressive regime
is not the end of the sea. There's more than empty disease.
They sit us in front of the screens, keep us staring into the nothingness.
As our brains melt, they're seeing just how deep the puddle gets.
Then they roll us to the checkerboard, afraid of games of chess,
but my strategy is check and force the King to lay to rest.
The King, he who channels all this madness,
while examining his captives as though we're chattel for masses,
or is it cattle for the juicy steaks we're never served?
The food is slop, pre-chewed mush with chemical preserves.
We veterans deserve something better than this turn,
so we'll strike together with a verve, the King deposed by his own serfs.
We'll cane the bastard, take out his knees with ruthless quickness.

But let's wait until after 4
because my grandson's due to visit.
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I'm just swinging swords strictly based on keyboards, unbalanced like elephants and ants on seesaws.
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