on Belabourin' Jack by middenHeap
28 Jan 2004, 10:51 AM
A deeply, deeply lewd piece.
on some deleted poem
28 Jan 2004, 11:17 AM
To sleep as mere nudelington is to share your bed with the devil himself. Nestled 'tween silken sheets, you linger and elope. Smearing yourself against the linen, though the linen would sooner remain unsullied. Giving of yourself that which should not be given. Resting, writhing, sweating in the moonlight. Silently, lewdly, and dreaming of sin.
on some deleted poem
28 Jan 2004, 12:23 PM
i wish i were a cape lobster
swimming through the sea
id swim up next to bathing girls
and pinch their twitching bums with ease
my bloated claws of grey and blue
slicing through the sea so true
i wish i were a cape lobster
swimming through the sea.
swimming through the sea
id swim up next to bathing girls
and pinch their twitching bums with ease
my bloated claws of grey and blue
slicing through the sea so true
i wish i were a cape lobster
swimming through the sea.
on Cold Rain Road by middenHeap
28 Jan 2004, 2:12 PM
An olive spitting out its pimiento; an elderly gentleman engaging in "Single-Handed Sailing". Which is the lewder?
on some deleted poem
29 Jan 2004, 10:24 AM
How delightfully topical!
on some deleted poem
30 Jan 2004, 2:07 AM
If you ever get anything published by a non-vanity publisher, I will personally eat a hat of your choosing.
on Captive by feathers68
30 Jan 2004, 11:34 AM
'within' is one word, as is 'cannot'. You also spelt 'bleakness' incorrectly. In general, the piece is awkward and unpleasantly written. I mean look at this line, for instance:
'The rest is fake my soul is broken.'
What you've done there is squashed two stupid sentences into one, extra stupid, non-sentence. You need something to separate the two. Either a semi-colon, i.e 'The rest is fake; my soul is broken!', or just have them as separate sentences. I suspect that had you just written down what you were trying to say, without trying make it into a poeme, you probably would have ended up with something far more coherent. What you have instead is a mess with arbitrary linebreaks. Good effort though! -10-
'The rest is fake my soul is broken.'
What you've done there is squashed two stupid sentences into one, extra stupid, non-sentence. You need something to separate the two. Either a semi-colon, i.e 'The rest is fake; my soul is broken!', or just have them as separate sentences. I suspect that had you just written down what you were trying to say, without trying make it into a poeme, you probably would have ended up with something far more coherent. What you have instead is a mess with arbitrary linebreaks. Good effort though! -10-
on some deleted poem
31 Jan 2004, 8:13 AM
Ace! Sadly my poemes don't seem to have a similar effect. Can you imagine the look on a woman's face after watching a grown man humiliating himself in public, openly performing lewd acts before a disgusted crowd, laughing madly, and smearing himself violently against the cobbles? Well double that and you might begin to understand what happened during my rendition of "Wipe Before You Weep" at the Cambridge University Women's Embroidery Discussion Group. -10-
on ATLAS by Garrett S Sexton
1 Feb 2004, 4:15 AM
For one thrilling moment I thought the title of this piece was "AIDS". -10-
on some deleted poem
1 Feb 2004, 4:19 AM
The title:
1. Begins with 'and'.
2. Is in all lower case.
3. Ends with a full stop.
Appalling. Simply appalling.
1. Begins with 'and'.
2. Is in all lower case.
3. Ends with a full stop.
Appalling. Simply appalling.
on some deleted poem
2 Feb 2004, 8:02 AM
'User has to wait until 3-Feb-04/6:36 PM before posting new poetry.' - PRAISE JESU
on 3AM At Whitey's by DurtKL
2 Feb 2004, 8:09 AM
Whitey's ain't shit. Lefty's is where it's at. Password: KEN SENT ME.
on some deleted poem
2 Feb 2004, 8:32 AM
I like my Jews like I like my coffee.
on some deleted poem
2 Feb 2004, 8:36 AM
Why did the baker have brown hands? Because he kneaded a poo.
on some deleted poem
2 Feb 2004, 1:44 PM
Did your boyfriend tell you this was beautiful, and then did you let him call round the tradesman's entrance? 10!!
on Soft Speak; Hard Emotion by Blindpoetry
2 Feb 2004, 2:58 PM
A colossal booby of indignity.
on Tales From The Outhouse by -=Dark_Angel=-, P.I.
2 Feb 2004, 4:40 PM
Speaking of Tales from the Outhouse, here is a horrifying one.
1900 hrs: I drained and consumed an entire diplomatic pouch of Sainsbury's Mozzarella Cheese.
2000 hrs: I began breaking wind.
2030 hrs: I noticed that the wind was significantly more foul than a normal farte, and that I was accumulating a full gas chamber at least every ten minutes.
2130 hrs: I realised that I had never before released such an inconceivably disgusting and protracted series of nauseous, sweaty, cheesy fartes in my entire life. If anyone else had been trapped in the room with me, they would have been pounding on the door and crying and pleading to be let out. I opened my window as far as it would go, to not much effect.
2200 hrs: The Browne Winds continued to blow ever more fiercely. I realised I was almost certainly permanently staining my jodhpurs, and quickly stripped to long-johns and cummerbund. The side effect was that each increasingly sickening fart was released instantly into the atmosphere instead of being caught in the ventilation chamber of my jodhpurs, and I was therefore assaulted tenfold by the awesome concentrated force of each new breaking.
2300 hrs: The length, frequency and punguency of the emissions continued to sail from strength to strength, with no end in sight. Despite my inbuilt resistance to the smell of my own gas, the stench had become quite unbearable, and my eyes were watering. I retired to the bathroom where there was a ventilation fan and hoped for respite.
2315: Unfortunately, it had the opposite effect. As anyone familiar with Boyle's law knows, the size of the room in which one fartes is inversely proportional to the mind-blowing intensity of the rectal outburst when it happens. With the pressure in my abdomen suddenly growing, I had no choice but to hold on to the towel rail, steel myself and to Jesu pray, though well I knew that He was why the Browne Winds blew.
23:20: Armageddon.
23:30: I stagger back to my desk, a broken, reamed husk of a man. Whether I will ever recover physically or morally is unknowable. My poor brave jodhpurs, upon inspection, have a colossal browne crater in the gusset; they will have to be put to sleep. The lingering stench of immoderation continues to taunt me from all corners of the room. The one thing I have to be grateful for is that I myself seem to have ridden out the storm.
But -- but what's this? My bowels seem to be filling at an unthinkable rate! Good God, what if this were to escape? No -- no -- for the love of mankind, I must hold it in! I -- I can do it. I can hold i
1900 hrs: I drained and consumed an entire diplomatic pouch of Sainsbury's Mozzarella Cheese.
2000 hrs: I began breaking wind.
2030 hrs: I noticed that the wind was significantly more foul than a normal farte, and that I was accumulating a full gas chamber at least every ten minutes.
2130 hrs: I realised that I had never before released such an inconceivably disgusting and protracted series of nauseous, sweaty, cheesy fartes in my entire life. If anyone else had been trapped in the room with me, they would have been pounding on the door and crying and pleading to be let out. I opened my window as far as it would go, to not much effect.
2200 hrs: The Browne Winds continued to blow ever more fiercely. I realised I was almost certainly permanently staining my jodhpurs, and quickly stripped to long-johns and cummerbund. The side effect was that each increasingly sickening fart was released instantly into the atmosphere instead of being caught in the ventilation chamber of my jodhpurs, and I was therefore assaulted tenfold by the awesome concentrated force of each new breaking.
2300 hrs: The length, frequency and punguency of the emissions continued to sail from strength to strength, with no end in sight. Despite my inbuilt resistance to the smell of my own gas, the stench had become quite unbearable, and my eyes were watering. I retired to the bathroom where there was a ventilation fan and hoped for respite.
2315: Unfortunately, it had the opposite effect. As anyone familiar with Boyle's law knows, the size of the room in which one fartes is inversely proportional to the mind-blowing intensity of the rectal outburst when it happens. With the pressure in my abdomen suddenly growing, I had no choice but to hold on to the towel rail, steel myself and to Jesu pray, though well I knew that He was why the Browne Winds blew.
23:20: Armageddon.
23:30: I stagger back to my desk, a broken, reamed husk of a man. Whether I will ever recover physically or morally is unknowable. My poor brave jodhpurs, upon inspection, have a colossal browne crater in the gusset; they will have to be put to sleep. The lingering stench of immoderation continues to taunt me from all corners of the room. The one thing I have to be grateful for is that I myself seem to have ridden out the storm.
But -- but what's this? My bowels seem to be filling at an unthinkable rate! Good God, what if this were to escape? No -- no -- for the love of mankind, I must hold it in! I -- I can do it. I can hold i
on How things should be... by DeadtotheWorld
3 Feb 2004, 3:33 PM
Things should be the natural logarithm of the way they currently are.