Originally posted by royalchickenAll 10 pages worth..?
There are verses, but they are being held hostage until someone reads the ancient ballad on page 7 of this thread and gives me evidence that they did so.
2,165 words..?!!
10,283 characters?
8 paragraphs and 437 lines..?!
Gimmi a week. Or are you referring to something else?
Originally posted by PeachyConsider, grasshopper, whether a million monkeys typing for a million years would reproduce, with high probability, the work of Brucktoplasme and Bytchtarred.
All 10 pages worth..?
2,165 words..?!!
10,283 characters?
8 paragraphs and 437 lines..?!
Gimmi a week. Or are you referring to something else?
Originally posted by royalchickenI get it now..
Consider, grasshopper, whether a million monkeys typing for a million years would reproduce, with high probability, the work of Brucktoplasme and Bytchtarred.
You used to be one of those million monkeys a million years ago.. I guess it is high probable then, that your name used to be royalmonkey.
And stop talking to that grasshopper!
Originally posted by PeachyEvolution happens differently in the realm of Faith; Faith Whales are actually descended from Faith Monkeys.
I get it now..
You used to be one of those million monkeys a million years ago.. I guess it is high probable then, that your name used to be royalmonkey.
And stop talking to that grasshopper!
I've killed all of the entries, reattached the bits I cut off, and I'm hanging to corpses out to dry. Please read these and vote for your favourites in the following way:
1. Pick your three favourites
2. Of these three favourites, give each one a score on a scale of 1-10 (1 being marginally better than the best one you didn't pick, 10 being vastly better than the best one you didn't pick)
For example, if my three favourite stanzas in the Bruckllad were the sixth, the 845th and the nine millionth, and I thought the sixth and nine millionth were of similar quality, but quite good, I might give them both 5, while the brilliant 854th stanza gets a 9. This system frees voters from assigning preference within their favourites if they don't want to, while allowing them to express not only which they thought were best but by how much.
Thanks to all of the entrants; although few people took part, the standard of verse was quite high.
In the order I got them:
Untitled
I
A bitter, unrelenting wind
slashed his nimble frame.
Each howling gust choked him with dust,
but on and on he came.
A broken and abrasive ground
cut his treading feet.
Although distressed he would not rest,
his journey incomplete.
The traveler trudged forever on
his goal not yet in sight.
Then to his ear came loud and clear
a sound of pure delight.
A sparrow song, serene and strong,
it filled his heart with joy ere long
and eased his weary plight.
II
A knight of yore in armor clad
within his tower round,
though storm outside did not subside
he could not feel it pound.
As bitter wind and stinging hail
assault the tower wall,
the knight was deep within his keep,
impervious to all.
Despite the dark and violent sky,
the sparrow flew around
and sang its song, divine and strong,
but knight heard not a sound.
He sat alone in dungeon stone
atop his bare and lifeless throne,
impassive and profound.
III
A winding path and narrow
lead to the tower door.
The traveler knew he must go through,
a mystery to explore.
Inside the gloom was all around,
a stillness in the air,
"What beast of dread", the traveler said,
"inhabits such a lair?"
He ventured into every room
and through the fading light,
then at last his eyes were cast
upon a murky sight.
A figure drear it soon was clear,
equipped with armor, helm and spear,
a grim and somber knight.
IV
Said knight, "Please tell me, I implore,
what brings you through the rain,
why one so frail would brave the hail
and its attendant pain?"
The traveler spoke of journeys hard
and sparrows joyous role,
the knight perplexed inquired next,
"But where then is thy goal?"
"My goal is not a resting place
steeped in ghostly lore.
My goal instead," the traveler said,
"is the journey, nothing more.
Seek not, my friend, its final end,
but travel forth as I intend,
for wonders lie in store."
V
The knight gave not the least reply
but sat like granite cold.
Some unknown fear had locked him here
inside of his stronghold.
The traveler left him sitting there
in darkness deep as night,
but now and then he comes again
within the towers sight.
At times the sky is filled with storms,
at times the sun is bright.
At times you hear the singing, clear,
of sparrows up in flight.
But in his room with shroud of gloom,
afraid to ever leave his tomb,
still sits a weeping knight.
Humanity
It was one of those lazy Sunday mornings. Half a hangover had set in and I
wondered up the still moist path between the trees.
It hadn't rained, or at least I presumed it hadn't, so the moisture was
probably dew, promising a beautiful Spring day ahead.
It was there I noticed the snail slowly rambling across the path in front of
me. It moved ever so stealthly and left its benchmark slimey trail behind
it.
I stood and admired it.
How could a creature move so slowly and not be bored? Or perhaps it was
bored? Maybe it didn't have brains enough to be bored.
And where did it think it was going? Did it think the grass was greener on
the other side of the path? Maybe there was, unknown to me, a lettuce patch
just across the way, which the snail had heard rumours about.
Snails are funny creatures. Are they slugs with shells on them? Or are slugs
actually baby snails? You never seem to see a family of snails sliming off
to one or other location. You know, Mummy snail with a couple of wee one's
in her wake...
I once heard that that snails can copulate with themselves. If I could
impregnate myself, I'd have more children than a council estate full of
single mothers!
This snail looked like a vineyard snail. The sort you could put in garlic
sauce and eat. A very beautiful creature. And I gazed upon it as it headed
off towards whichever destination it deemed acceptable.
And then I stood on it.
Not because I don't like snails. Not because I wanted to hear the crunch of
its shell as it smashed into pieces. No, I stood on it just because I could.
The Devil at Night
I'm a mess
I hate to confess
Tall and strong
I try to prolong
Love that’s not there
I dream, fantasize and scare
I forfeit
For no profit
Stealing some good
Using men like food
Yearning, begging and stealing
No wonder there is no loving
Releasing the devil inside
Masking my insecurities as I hide
I take flight
And become the devil at night.
Thuh Poery of Alclohol
Thuh Poery of alclohol fallsh ash ih will
in greah clumping shlodsh on my page
ih grabsh my pen wih mute percishion
and dumpsh ih irreverny in thish paper cage.
I falter on thuh shmile of a girl
pashing aware by my muddy shigh
an wonner if she'll appershiate
a drunken lovuh thish wintersh nigh
She passhesh by withow a shigh
she tradesh awarenesh for a shtare
an ignorsh thuh poery of alclohol
with ish vishish twisht an calloush care
Evolution
Drawn together; haemophillic lovers
the iron in our blood calls
through layers of tissue
magnetised and lonely, pulling for unity;
for that polar moment of inseperable attraction
The air becomes our blood
it carries the smells and tastes
of sweat and hormones;
fear, excitement, anticipation, urgency,
paralysing need and the overwhelming addiction to emotion
We touch. Our molecules learn
our surfaces understand
transmitting the knowledge
of other life, we catalogue and experience
the first new waves of sensation
We taste; the copper and salt
and ammonia and peat,
trust and oak and leather and sweat,
lust and need and pain and violence
oblivion and chlorine and hate
Kisses are like books
the lips are eyes to read
and the knowledge of each other is borne
on our teeth and tongues and the nerves
of our mouths, each breath a chapter
We are here; present
in the undeniable process of humanity
fulfilling our function; eating
growing, passing on the tricks;
blood will flow and mingle