DeepAsleep
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And that's that.
~D.A.
Firing calmly in a hail of bullets.
~D.A.
Firing calmly in a hail of bullets.
GUNFIGHT! (número seis)
- Thread starter Lauren Hynde
- Start date
Lauren Hynde
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Time is almost up, people!
DeepAsleep
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*eyeing lauren's AV* yano, I almost wish I had time to write a new one, because that ass is definitely poetry.
~D.A.
laughing at death. >=]
~D.A.
laughing at death. >=]
Lauren Hynde
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LOLDeepAsleep said:
RebeccaLeah
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May I mention Lauren, you are evil as fuck! That is a bitch of a topic.
Can't wait to see the results.
es to the brave poets.
Can't wait to see the results.
es to the brave poets.
My Erotic Tale
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BANG BANG ...
Trent_Dutch
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Glad thats done with.... I can drink some more now..... Oh sweet oblivion....
Lauren Hynde
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Yay! All 4 poem are in, and two of them just in the nick of time.
Becca, I'm not sure if I was aiming at deceptively simple, or deceptively difficult.
Becca, I'm not sure if I was aiming at deceptively simple, or deceptively difficult.
DeepAsleep
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Is it alright for the contestants to read each other's work, before we're judged. I give two shits about winning, but I'd like to see what everyone came up with.
~D.A.
~D.A.
impressive
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Now what?
Trent_Dutch
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Remec said:
Well, Im gonna get this 22 slug taken out my arm then get drunk..... maybe pass out on the mud and blood....
RebeccaLeah
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minsue said:Just aimin' for deceptive?
That was my guess gosling.
es Lauren
DeepAsleep
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Remec said:
T'weren't me. I brought two .45's courtesy of John Woo's 'Hard Boiled.'
~D.A.
"Give a man a gun and he's Superman! Give him two and he's God!"
Trent_Dutch
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Remec said:
It's all good... I think I might have shot myself... sure feels that way.... and ya'all should remember... the 22 is the easiest pistol to shoot. Light weight, light load. The lighter the pistol the better, not for speed... but for time.
My Erotic Tale
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well that was like shooting peas in a pod
with only four peas in it <grin>
our we on a new frontier here or is this
done all the time cause that was cool,
I usually don't have thirty minutes to write
a poem <laughin>
okay so now what, "Drink up, FIRST rounds on
LAUREN."
with only four peas in it <grin>
our we on a new frontier here or is this
done all the time cause that was cool,
I usually don't have thirty minutes to write
a poem <laughin>
okay so now what, "Drink up, FIRST rounds on
LAUREN."
Trent_Dutch
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My Erotic Tale said:
Really... I woulda signed up earlier if I knew I would get free booze.
Lauren Hynde
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Here are the two poem as they're going to be presented to judges foehn, WickedEve & minsue.
What is it?
"Words", she said.
And I nodded,
as I usually did
when she was involved,
then shrugged.
"What now?", she asked.
And I shrugged again,
my hand passing
over my chin and through
my beard.
"You disagree?", she guessed.
And I raised my hands
in the air with
palms outstretched.
"Very well, have a go then," she told me.
And I coughed,
quietly,
and gathered my thoughts,
such as they were.
"You're stalling," she accused.
And I laughed,
then swept her off onto
a tour of worlds too numerous,
too grand and subtle,
colourful and stark,
emotional,
logical,
heartless yet full of the hope
that someone will come along
and recognize an image,
or a reflection,
and pass it on.
vs.
P*e*t*
Where is the sun that burned so hot
last summer with a mighty scorn?
Wrapped in a blanket of memories
on a cold winters blizzard morn.
Or that old rose bush that flowers
in the regeneration of spring
I could see it now, bare and pitiful
gnarled and dormant as a sapling.
The wind that blows across my face
had came from far far away
Will sail across the meadow
and make the dead grass sway
Untangling a mind of mincing days
just to pass the time away
Of all I wondered at this time
was what to call this mental play
What is it?
"Words", she said.
And I nodded,
as I usually did
when she was involved,
then shrugged.
"What now?", she asked.
And I shrugged again,
my hand passing
over my chin and through
my beard.
"You disagree?", she guessed.
And I raised my hands
in the air with
palms outstretched.
"Very well, have a go then," she told me.
And I coughed,
quietly,
and gathered my thoughts,
such as they were.
"You're stalling," she accused.
And I laughed,
then swept her off onto
a tour of worlds too numerous,
too grand and subtle,
colourful and stark,
emotional,
logical,
heartless yet full of the hope
that someone will come along
and recognize an image,
or a reflection,
and pass it on.
vs.
P*e*t*
Where is the sun that burned so hot
last summer with a mighty scorn?
Wrapped in a blanket of memories
on a cold winters blizzard morn.
Or that old rose bush that flowers
in the regeneration of spring
I could see it now, bare and pitiful
gnarled and dormant as a sapling.
The wind that blows across my face
had came from far far away
Will sail across the meadow
and make the dead grass sway
Untangling a mind of mincing days
just to pass the time away
Of all I wondered at this time
was what to call this mental play
Last edited:
My Erotic Tale
Literotica Guru
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- 3,359
GOD made all men equal
Mr. Colt (colt 45) changed the odds
doesn't matter what you hide behind
I'm gonna get you ...hehehe or blow
a hole the size of auntie mays bend over
in something.
Mr. Colt (colt 45) changed the odds
doesn't matter what you hide behind
I'm gonna get you ...hehehe or blow
a hole the size of auntie mays bend over
in something.
Lauren Hynde
Hitched
- Joined
- Apr 11, 2002
- Posts
- 21,061
Here are the two poem as they're going to be presented to judges impressive, CharleyH & Reltne.
What is Poetry?
What isn't?
Dancing through it is the answer.
Smoky capes on bar room lamps is the answer.
The back of a girl's neck,
winter hues of blues and greys,
these are the answers.
It's insanity in a motel room,
pacing back and forth and never,
under any circumstances,
letting go of that idea.
It's seascapes and wintry hills,
snowy blankets and popping pills,
words that rhyme and words that
just
fucking
don't.
It's for you what it'll never be to me,
and I think it's a womb with a view,
a safe place that smells like girls,
smells like danger,
smells, sometimes, like a badly used bathroom.
It's blood, blood's the answer,
getting into the bones, that's the answer,
verbal autopsy, that's the answer.
And I'm the answer,
because I'm beautiful and
fucked and
quiet.
The one that got away,
she's the answer
because I love her,
and that's the answer, too.
vs.
The Full Dichter.
A poem is nothing,
Neither real nor certain.
The reason for my stance,
I wont give, if you won’t question.
I never studied poetry,
When I was at school,
I learned how drink,
Roll a joint and shoot pool.
But I learned what a poet was,
And I learned what he wasn’t.
I learned from a man,
Much older than myself,
With problems of his own,
Loneliness and ill health.
He taught me how to see things,
What to focus on, what to shut out.
Salinger once attested,
That he could never trust,
A poet who couldn’t tell,
The better type of dust,
The good type of bee sting,
From that which was inferior.
But Issa never sees
Nor Siki, Basho or Buson,
What must be written,
What must be done.
The fat faced peony,
Never shows it’s self.
And as I sit scratching,
A mosquito bite,
I wonder if I should see,
Whether its wrong, or why its right.
What is Poetry?
What isn't?
Dancing through it is the answer.
Smoky capes on bar room lamps is the answer.
The back of a girl's neck,
winter hues of blues and greys,
these are the answers.
It's insanity in a motel room,
pacing back and forth and never,
under any circumstances,
letting go of that idea.
It's seascapes and wintry hills,
snowy blankets and popping pills,
words that rhyme and words that
just
fucking
don't.
It's for you what it'll never be to me,
and I think it's a womb with a view,
a safe place that smells like girls,
smells like danger,
smells, sometimes, like a badly used bathroom.
It's blood, blood's the answer,
getting into the bones, that's the answer,
verbal autopsy, that's the answer.
And I'm the answer,
because I'm beautiful and
fucked and
quiet.
The one that got away,
she's the answer
because I love her,
and that's the answer, too.
vs.
The Full Dichter.
A poem is nothing,
Neither real nor certain.
The reason for my stance,
I wont give, if you won’t question.
I never studied poetry,
When I was at school,
I learned how drink,
Roll a joint and shoot pool.
But I learned what a poet was,
And I learned what he wasn’t.
I learned from a man,
Much older than myself,
With problems of his own,
Loneliness and ill health.
He taught me how to see things,
What to focus on, what to shut out.
Salinger once attested,
That he could never trust,
A poet who couldn’t tell,
The better type of dust,
The good type of bee sting,
From that which was inferior.
But Issa never sees
Nor Siki, Basho or Buson,
What must be written,
What must be done.
The fat faced peony,
Never shows it’s self.
And as I sit scratching,
A mosquito bite,
I wonder if I should see,
Whether its wrong, or why its right.
DeepAsleep
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Jul 17, 2004
- Posts
- 774
Awesome work, guys.
~D.A.
~D.A.
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