We can has games
This has now been declared a Good Idea, so we're starting one with this entry. The winner gets applause, glory, and a spot at center stage in which to show off really well. The same goes for everyone else who turns in a good performance. The only difference is that Everyone Else doesn't also get a Gears of War 2 Special Edition Zune 120 GB (see description).
Note: it's a freebie, nothing more. If you're really worried about Boing Boing's purity, you can help protect it by winning the game. As you know, freebies emit a faint, kryptonite-like radiation that only affects Boingers; but since the arrangements call for donor Whitney Biaggi to ship the Zune directly to the winner, and since readers are of course immune to freebie-radiation, things should work out just fine.
We're going to be running more games and contests in the near future, with prizes from other donors. If you're planning to kick up a big fuss about some imagined commercialization, please bear in mind that (1.) freebies aren't terribly memorable unless someone makes a fuss about them; and (2.) eventually even you will get bored at having to kick up a fuss whenever someone snags a prize, and the rest of us will get bored a lot sooner than that.
You're a clever bunch. Let's play games instead.
The first one's simple: write some verse about one or more recurrent Boing Boing obsessions: steampunk, the TSA, unlikely mods, papercraft, mashups, gadgets, emergent properties of the Zombie Apocalypse, DIY, FISA, comics, photographers' rights, WTF, FTW, wristwatches, skiffy history, misused tasers, making a foo out of bar, cryptozoology, Tibet, animation, copyright abuse, drives, hacks, sex, robots, robot hacks, hacking sex, sex with robots, emergent properties of sex with steampunked robots during the Zombie Apocalypse forestalled by misuse of copyright by body-modded TSA official using LEDs and a 9-volt battery, et cetera, found dead on beach in Long Island. (Not a complete list.) Best poem wins. If you turn down the prize, you get a jar of marmalade, and the runner-up gets the Zune. The moderation guidelines still apply.
All other things being equal, your poem is likelier to win if it rhymes and scans; even more so if it's formal verse. Villanelles count more than limericks. Alternately, write it as a pastiche of a recognizable work or author. Pastiches may be prose, but may not be long, and had better be good. For extra extra credit, write your piece as an on-topic comment in some other thread, then re-post it here. All other things being equal, wit, language, and happy mutancy win.
Finally, feel free to suggest other games to be played in future threads.
Addendum: Tdawwg replies:
But limericks are formal verse,
the same as villanelles; you err
thus separating the two. Worse,
although their differences are fair,
they're unremarked by you: silk purse,
sow's ear, don't make of them a pair,
two distinct objects they, diverse.


the latest
latest episodes
Ooooh boy. I'm gonna have to think about that one. I wish you hadn't mentioned villanelles, though, because now everyone will be doing them. D:
oh fire aunt, what about haiku?
Mythus -- Does that actually work? Like, if I say "pantoum", will they all drive themselves bonkers trying to write one in English?
Gotta be really, really good, MinTphresh.
ahem...steampunk does not read/ oh! zombie apocalypse/robot body-mods
Oh! Papercraft Sanrio iconography!
How you pull the strings o' my heart,
and still my psyche as a pond under
the still suns of a far-away Tuscany,
with Europeans milling about every
which way, and claming to know the
face of the air-spirits around us.
Papercraft Sanrio iconography you
bless the land and the seas!
On that day when we shall all have you
upon our mantles,
let us toast our fortune with red wine and almonds.
Amen.
Sexy freak robot
Copper gear and leather face
DONT CALL IT STEAMPUNK
Esq: Perhaps fewer topics, for a more unified effect?
Hey, I was just stopping by to brag about tonight's date... she's a little sensitive.
#8: here's what you get with too many topics.
I know it's bad and doesn't rhyme or scan, but I think it still has an interesting form.
Here goes:
Neither steam nor punk,
Zombies or sexbots,
Political activists or hackers,
Chinese government or the RIAA,
Gimmicky timepieces or photographer-harassing security guards,
Copyright enforcers or abusers,
Gadgets or flying machines,
Repurposed hardware or homebrewed software,
Apple or Microsoft,
Google or Yahoo!,
Bloggers or writers,
Comics or cartoons,
Obama or McCain,
Palin or That Other Guy, (so, sue me, I'm Canadian, what do I care)
Books of the 'e' kind or books of the (non-'e') paper kind,
The sublime or the banal (or the sublimely banal),
Dead people or live people,
The weird or the bizarre,
The TSA or the BBC,
MTV or FOX News,
Nothing, nothing at all,
Can prevent me from constantly checking Boing Boing
Throughout the day (or night)
Except when my Internet connection goes down
Or when my Windows laptop crashes
Or when I have to step out
Or when I have to sleep
Or when I have to cook my meals
Or when a friend drops by (don't want to be rude)
Or when there's something really good on TV (which is rare)
Or when I have to get to or get back from work
Or when I get a phone call
Or when I'm giving tech support advice to a friend over IM (but I'll still steal a glance every few minutes)
Or when I'm playing video games
Or when I'm reading a book
Or when I'm not home and can't get a wifi signal
Nope, nothing can get between me and my Boing Boing fix.
Damn, the comment system's automatic closing of HTML tags caused the last line to not be in italics. It's supposed to be part of the "piece".
Fixed, Shutz.
It wasn't the automatic tag-closing function; it was double-spacing. For some reason, a tag won't jump that gap.
A senryu:
ã‚ãã¯ã°ã‚‰
スティームパンク
見られãªã„
english translation:
akihabara
steampunk
cannot be seen
Notes:
senryu has the same syllable pattern as haiku, but has much fewer rules. You're allowed to talk about people, for example, and don't have to have a word to denote the season.
A senryu:
ã‚ãã¯ã°ã‚‰
スティームパンク
見られãªã„
english translation:
akihabara
steampunk
cannot be seen
Notes:
senryu has the same syllable pattern as haiku, but has much fewer rules. You're allowed to talk about people, for example, and don't have to have a word to denote the season.
The day ended in a bit of mystification,
when he told me the third eye was his conception.
It irks me paying for copyright protection,
when clearly my third eye is a random mutation.
Oh, if you're a zombie, be an early zombie
And catch the brains for your breakfast plate.
If you're a zombie, be an early early zombie--
But if you're a brain, sleep late.
-with apologies to Shel
Boing Boing the magical blog
The more you read the more your slog
Through daily life is zazzled up
So check this site and 2girls1cup
i carry my love with me(an etched golden
wafer)i am never without it(anywhere
with wifi, my dear; and whatever you twitter
i hold dear to me,my darling)
i am
cybernetic(and my love is sweet silicon)i want
no world(your facebook page is my world, my true)
and it's you are the sum of your favorite memes
and whatever is an online identity is you
here is the deepest secret of the usenet archive
(here is the rootkit of the root and the boing of the boing
and the silicon poetry of teh intarwebs;which fills
the emptiness of isolated, physical existence)
technology reduces all distances to zero
i carry my love with me(an etched golden wafer)
-inspired by ee cummings
sounds fun!
---
O Zeppelin fair
‘neath clouds of lead
You tear the sky in two
Sailing far and near
in search of the were,
bigfoot, and unlikely
cryptozoo!
Papers please! You may
not pass, lacking the one,
key signed properly!
All legos scatter
under boot steely toed,
A game unfairly played.
Boy robot stands
disemvowelled, clutching
a clockwork dog
A mangey friend, always true,
he gives; never asking,
Asking nothing of you
My packets negotiate
Maya link, fiber-chum
hammerheads engorge
I sign off here, everywhere
leaving this, for you, to view
'Twas the night before Warcraft, when all through the 'Net
Not a n00b was lurking, to a geek's regret
BoingBoing was read intently with care
In hopes there'd be more of Maru to share
My eyes can't un-see.
Only one thing will heal them.
Unicorn chaser.
Not a likely winner, but it just popped into my mind :)
Though I suppose a double dactyl's only a step up from a limerick:
Boingity Boingity
Cory Doctorow ap-
Pears in a comic
Called xkcd,
And though the comic's drawn
Monochromatically
His cape is always as
Bright as can be!
How, I said, was it for you?
Light glowed in your eyes.
You, in your monotone, you said:
It. Was. A. De. Light. Ful. Ex.
Pe.Re.Ience. Thank. You. John.
---hummed to the ren and stimpu Log song--
What gets strange stares, from Madrid to Paris
With stories of insects in clogs?
They're a tight knit pack, got each others backs
It's Boing Boings Blog!
A blog! a vlog!
It's smart, it's funny, it's good!
A blog! a vlog!
With gadgets thrown in 'cuz they should!
Everyone talks at their blog!
Don't like it? Then get your own blog!
'Twas a 'zine, but now it's a blog!
Free ice cream for all at their blog!
BLOG... brought to you by PES-CO.
I'd also like to enter everyone who contributed to the wrist-orrery thread in August. That was some awesome stuff.
Furry old lobsters and mutated gene code
Fembots with lasers and self-destruct mode
Empire Strikes Back and Lord of the Rings
In my directory of wonderful things
Steampunky gadgets and fan-powered autos
Cute lil' kittens with badly spelled mottos
Leaf blower traps for preventing wasp stings
In my directory of wonderful things
Nano-Obamas and body-mod how-tos
Comix worth reading and pop art to peruse
Clockwork explosions of sprockets and springs
In my directory of wonderful things
When the bomb drops, when the dead walk, when I'm zombie-fooooood!
My directory of wonderful things, helps me to feel less screwed!
Apologies to Rodgers and Hammerstein
Ho-kay. Here are my poems, parodies tho they might be:
"We heard a crunch before it died" - by Kristin Dickenson
We heard a crunch before it died
And though the fan droned on
Its smokey soul perfumed the air
Like lightning -- and was gone.
The data-center air was dry
Despite the admins' sweat --
And countless were our Users' prayers
Cast from the internet.
The day was saved when Foresight pulled
A hot spare from its hoard --
Our gratitude was entered in
A ticket to the Lord!
Disaster o'er, the cluster danced --
Geek Angels on a pin --
For joy is great whenever
Holy Admin acks your syn.
"Sometimes old should stay" - by Kristin Frost
To "steampunk" add some brass
(It lends a touch of class).
Re-use the rounded keys
Of an Underwood to please.
Encase the thing in oak
And make it give off smoke,
For steampunk lets us say
Sometimes "old" should stay.
"AAARRRRGGGHHHHH" - by Kristin Carlos Kristins
I have eaten
the brains
that were in your
head
but which
you rarely
used
anyway.
Forgive me
they were delicious
so slimy
and so warm.
"A file shared" - by Kristin Hughes
What happens to a file shared?
Does it languish
Like a CD left unsold?
Or fuel others' interest
And go gold?
Does it make sales inflate?
Or steal food from every
RIAA exec's plate?
Maybe it just waits
a request for download.
Or does it explode?
=============
I did a haiku of my own recently, and while it isn't funny or based on anything in the given list of guidelines (outside of being written in Japanese, which seems to strike some as cool), I though its explanation would be fun for those who are unacquainted with the Japanese version of what children are told about the moon. Unlike Westerners, who have their "Man in the Moon" or perhaps some cheese, when the Japanese see the full moon, they see the shadow of a rabbit making 餅 (mochi, or sticky rice cakes) - usually done by pounding 餅米(mochi rice) with a wooden mallet. The other morning when I was driving to work, I noted that the rabbit in the full moon at dawn was ears-down toward the horizon, and so I wrote:
æœæœˆè¦‹
沈ã‚ã‚‹å…Ž
逆ã•ã‹ãª
(Morning moon-viewing
[the] sinking rabbit
[is] upside-down)
Like I said, not exciting, but interesting, no? Now, off to bed with me before I blather more than I already have.
`Twas Xeni, and the pesk of wits
Hid schneier and battelle in the make:
All cory were the jackinjills,
For the felder frau enrake.
We bare the Jardinsex, my Sis,
The punks that steam, the cats that lol!
We bare the BeeBee butt, and diss
The zuneious Craphound mall!"
She took her drupal script with tea,
Long time the lessig foe she wrought --
Podcasted she for BoingBoing tv,
And blogged a bit for nought.
And, as in breslin prose she squid,
The Jardinsex, with gama game,
Came hacking through the comic vid,
And dropping not a frame!
It's diffed, it's daft! through chore and craft
The drupaled text had wit and whack!
She got it grrrld, and with it urled
She permalinked her stack.
"Have you defrocked the Jardinsex?
Strum on my uke, my jesting Jill!
O roq la rue! Audrey! Adieu!"
She twittered back a thrill.
`Twas Xeni, and the pesk of wits
Hid schneier and battelle in the make:
All cory were the jackinjills,
For the felder frau enrake.
@--->---
...
i submit a digital rose
My post is
Lost under ninety-nine others
Even surveillance ignores
mine's a senryu, too. I think haiku's have to be about nature.
Punks, get ready to be schooled! Yeah, that's right, I wrote a god-dammed steampunk villanelle! Suck on that, bitches!
I have found the solution!
The world is screwed, the sky is gray
All hail the steampunk revolution!
We need to rewrite our constitution
It doesn't allow for anachronistic play
I have found the solution!
The past is getting a stay of execution
Welded Victorian metal, but made in this day
All hail the steampunk revolution!
With brass cups, we could have cold fusion
All the worlds problems, going away
I have found the solution!
We need to get rid of this institution
Of plastic, silicon, digital display
All hail the steampunk revolution!
Every man seeks absolution
But there is only one way
I have found the solution!
All hail the steampunk revolution!
Ok, so it's not a very good villanelle, but hey, it's a fucking villanelle! You try sticking to a meter that's so rigid you could build the frickin' space elevator on it! Seriously, the people that came up with this thing must've been deranged.
(I really wanted to find a way to fit "binomial distribution" in there, but I couldn't make it fit)
I KNOW, the syllables don't match up in English, but in the original Esperanto, they totally do.
Bonus points if your poem is also an acrostic criticizing a dictator.
From the classic film, Breakfast at Xeni's i present "Boing Boinger".
--------
Zuuuuune tattoo's, jokes to bring a smile,
Folks chasing their own style, their way.
Oh l33t makers, and code breakers,
You open our eyes to wonders each day
Five hipsters, talking 'bout the world
'bout unicode and and perl, and C.
An-i-me and pow--ers of ten,
ninjas and 'will it blend',
my happy mutant friends,
Won-derful.... for me.
You can haz
plums in the
ice box.
But I
eated them.
Kthxbye!
or -
Won-derful direc-tory.
Won-derful.... AND FREE!
(yeah, that's the one!)
can someone please point me in the direction of a small, lightweight, wireless camera that i can affix to a rc airplane -- oh yes.
Sestina of a Reluctant Copyfighter
(in iambic pentameter)
I download stuff. Not all of it is "free" --
Or meant to be, at least. But people share.
It's alright if you take what I create.
I'd never copy-shackle my own art.
I have a hankering for the obscure,
And I will stay obscure as well, by rights.
I know, of course, i haven't got the right:
no "information-wanting-to-be-free"
or any other jargon can obscure
the fact that when we, as we put it, "share,"
we replicate another person's art.
Are copies something I should not create?
But in the past, we couldn't just create;
the learnéd men who scribbled out our rights
did not foresee this replicable art,
which makes another of itself for free.
And if they did, why tell us not to share?
Conspiracy? Some purpose more obscure?
I know, the artist's needs are not "obscure."
But I don't see the people who create
receiving, from the middle-man, their share --
they've all too often signed away their rights,
and found themselves endeavoring for free
to do a deed that's less and less an art.
But certainly this isn't all of art;
just most of art that isn't so obscure.
The margins (blesséd margins!) leave you free,
uncensored and unhindered, to create.
But on the margin, who protects your rights?
Forget your rights. Embrace your fanbase. Share.
If just a thousand, seeing that you share,
decide they love you and they love your art,
then you won't need to sweat about your rights.
You can be happy, healthy, and obscure,
as long as you remember to create
at least a couple things that aren't free.
So free your mind before you grab your share.
Don't litigate, just go create some art!
And let the lawyers sort obscurer rights.
Since I'm not entirely sure how short short is, I'm warning that this is a prose piece. Hopefully it's short enough!
-----------
I was looking around the Secret Boutique on my daily pilgrimage when I saw the Raconteur. I knew it would take convincing Scott that it fit with the Western theme, but that it would be worth the effort. It was a gorgeous piece of machinery that someone would pay good money for.
On my way into the store, I made sure to touch the miniature steamer trunk that The Beaver stood on. Ever since he went up in the window, my superstitions had expanded to include touching him on my way back from expeditions. Scott thinks that it is an action to remember Craphound, and I tell him I think he is getting soft since his retirement.
I think it is too soon to tell that story.
With a hint of dread for the coming conversation, I headed to the back room of the Queen Street boutique with my prize. Scott looked up from the books and I could see an expression of confusion cross his face and mix with concern. Scott trusted my hounding skills, but I could see the Raconteur testing his faith.
“What’s that?†he asked with an edge of forced nonchalance.
“It’s called a Raconteur, makes music by twisting a key.â€
“Oh. Is it big with cowboy collectors? I’ve never seen anything quite like it.â€
“Well, it’s a niche that’s gaining. It’s called ‘Steampunk.’ People will pay a fortune for it.†I wasn’t entirely sure on this last point, but I made sure not to let on. You can’t give away your bluff in the middle of a hand.
But it ended up that I didn’t need to worry about my speech. Scott accepted me at my word and we set the Raconteur out in a place where it would get enough traffic and gather interest. As it turned out, I picked it up right as the Steampunk wave was rising. I started finding more of this stuff in the rummage sales and thrift stores, and slowly Scott’s boutique began to expand. We moved out from strictly cowboy stuff to include more of my Victorian-esque finds.
The Beaver still stands in the window in his cowboy gear, but he’s accompanied by several Alice in Wonderland tin wind-up toys now. I’m putting up a picture behind him today that must have been painted close to an opium den. I get the slightest twinge that I’m betraying something with each addition, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned being a craphound, it’s that, no matter how hard we try to preserve the life we know, it has a nasty way of changing. It works out best if we accept this and change with it. Only through change can we truly live.
My submission is in the form of a crossword. Because the BB comments section cannot express this well, please go to this Flickr! page:
BB We can has games crossword puzzle
I will post the solution on Friday Nov 14.
My suggestions for future games/contests:
6-word stories, like the ones from the Wired article that was linked here a couple of years ago. That was a lot of fun (plus, I have a few good ones in the bank, already...)
50-word stories: I also have some practice with this. Unlike the 6-word stories, you get less of a "headline" feel, and more of an actual story feel.
Fake Boing Boing posts: either pastiches of the posts one particular Happy Mutant does, or just "fake news" of the Onion kind, but in the Boing Boing style. With bonus points for providing photoshopped "evidence".
There could also be more elaborate games that require pre-registration.
For example, you announce the game a week in advance, and let as many participants register as you can (or you set a limit.) Then, when the time comes, you send each participant a private message telling them on which side of a bogus argument they're on, and then you open the thread for discussion.
For example, the question could be "Should digital religions be taxable?" and then the debate would have half the participants for taxation, with the other half against. If you really need a winner, you could give each participant 5 votes (or some appropriate number) they can then apply to the best arguments (posts) from their side. A player can only vote for one of his comments, and each player must spread his 5 votes to 5 different comments from 5 different posters.
Then, the Happy Mutants, or whoever is assigned as judge, choose the top 10 posts for each side. The number of votes is then revealed, and for every vote that each of these 10 posts have received, one point is assigned to that side.
The side with the most points wins, and out of the 10 selected posts from that side, the one with the most votes is declared the winner.
@Bogus #29 - and Respected Moderateurs -
if a picture
paint a thousand words,
does this
take it over the limit?
(Hell, that's almost Poetry right there!)
Blessings,
Le Rev Dr
Ahem.
(Clears throat and prepares best reading voice.)
Steampunk, steampunk, steampunk!
Oh, Boing Boing is ridden with Steampunk
A most wonderful Victorian array
Of zeppelins and brass gears and tailcoats
And gramophones, steam-driven - they play
Of folks who sneak into old factories
Edwardian-clad to play croquet
Of anarcho-techno-fetishism
And brass-covered hand-wielded deathrays
We've had Charles Booth visualising beautifully
The London poverty survey
And amongst all this wonderful madness
We may even have had steampunk crochet?
Of course in the depths of the comments
There are those who emerge to say "Nay"
And constantly try to exhort us:
"No more steampunk, it's awful. Cliché!"
Well, Cory's not one to be ordered
And swoops to the doubters to say:
"If you don't like it you can go elsewhere
Steampunk! Steampunk! Steampunk! Okay?"
"But where is our ration of steampunk?"
For more, Boingers ardently pray
Alas, Cory is not here with us, but
On an island, honeymooning away
(Hope he's having a good time, though.)
---------------------------------------
It has a rhyming pattern (uniform throughout) and formal metre, though I'm screwed if I have the slightest idea what it's called, or if it even has an established name. Oh, and there are references to as many posts as I could fit into the rhyme and metre at 2 AM when I need to be awake tomorrow.
accidentally
an hot air balloon
but it fly away
The bloggers first I sing, who ever plumb
The net's great depths, and so unclog its tubes,
And flush away the excrement of rubes
So that the links we drink are never dumb.
The coders too, with every new <br />
I praise, and crafters; all who have the joules
To comprehend the languages of tools
And hack to make instead of merely mar.
I bow as well before the unicorn
Who chases all NSFW
Away, and brings delight, but still, who knew
There could be such perversion without porn?
I'd write panegyric verses by the score
But if you please, I'll just read BoingBoing more.
--
If you can't beat it, sonnet!
For line 5: With every new open angle bracket slash br close angle bracket.
Thank you very much Mr. (you may use HTML tags for style), but I was trying to be clever!
Bent double, like old beggars on Goatse.cx,
Knock-kneed, Coprophagia-ing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
And from the haunting screens you turned your backs
And towards new victims you began to trudge.
The RIAA marched in their sleep fronted by an army of suits
But Tanya Andersen limped on, She-God. All lamed; all blinded;
Drunk with the riches gained from those in cahoots
With DRM’d, unstripped music that drops behind.
Yes! Yes! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the rubbery helmet just in time;
But then there was yelling out and stumbling,
And wtf-ing at this purported vehicle of private time…
Dim, through my misty panes and thick milky white,
Under the letters Y and T, I heard him singing,
“Don’t tell me you’re too blind to see…â€
“I just wanna tell you how I’m feelingâ€.
There was a beast washed up at Nantucket
Zombies and robots fight each other to want it
Youtubed by some horny unicorn
NSFW rightwing censored porn
My disemvoweled comment, "FCK T!"
Boing Boing + Haiku = BongKu
Boing its not just Boing
Its not just sex with robots
There are hoboes too
I was at one of MC Frontalot's concerts last week and Front went completely insane on stage, doing an alternative version of Tongue-Clucking Grammarian, something about punishing senior citizens. I believe the lyrics went something like:
fuck fuck
tongue fucking barbarian yo
fuck fuck
check your aunt’s dilation
anybody wonder what you're up against
you get tongue fucked, what’s your best defence
you just relax, you’re too old not to do it
you go prffft on that and all attendants knew it
and while I’m on the topic of frontalots tongue
I should mention that it’s coming after anyone
and as it unravels, your asscheeks split
the discipline in your rear, stuck in your butt like a tit (goes)
fuck fuck
fuck fuck
listening to infomercials led to your sad state
you ought to take stool seriously, you keep-a straight
and it’ll slip in, here’s my suppository
and I suppose in conjunction I could tell you a story
‘bout how not to feel so vexed for once
it’s impalpable, take out the trash, syringe
turn your back and front’s on track to your drain
hope that made it plain, the nerdcore refrain (goes)
fuck fuck
tongue fucking barbarian yo
fuck fuck
check your aunt’s dilation
quit arguing, you geriatrics need to agree
that this is a question of morality
and I cannot believe you bask in the glow
while family members cough up fecal particles that you let go
dropping my nan at the local distillery yo
I should, it’s time, I mean begin with the drillery so
deep underground, isn’t it nice
I need a tissue, the slithering that I fantasize (goes)
fuck fuck
fuck fuck
I will throw fucks at you ignorant rednecks
you want to denounce me, you need more than butt sex
keep still, when the tongue comes seeking
every stiff wind you break, any sewage you’re leaking
it’s true I’ve been guilty of more than a fart
I don’t preach how I practice, ‘cause with me it’s art
if it’s mine it’s good there’s no need to fear it
but when you oldies let rip the whole world gets to hear it
(I really wanted to find a way to fit "corn chucking mammalian" in there, but I couldn't make it fit)
You were different from all the others.
I always felt awkward at those dances,
Those 'thrilling' free and drunk romances
Never seemed to happen to me
But there they were - in ones or twos
Or even groups of threes they screwed -
To me they were so very rude
When I viewed them from the window.
I stood watching them on tiptoe,
And though they ran screaming into the night
You alone did not take fright
As you lay there nude on the ornate rug.
So I clambered through into the room
And told you of my one desire
Your dear bright eyes grew so much wider:
For you thought we were to bed.
But then I ate your brains instead,
For I am come back from the dead.
Brains...
A Nuclear Winter
Half-life runs at 60 frames
Mouse clicks - double frag.
please be kidding. No serious please. Be kidding.
This Is Just To Say
I have eaten
the brains
that were in
the ice box
and which
you were probably
saving
for the Zombie Apocalypse
Forgive me
they were delicious
so meaty
and so cold
-I've been a long time reader and as soon as i read this post i knew i had to submit this pastiche of William Carlos Williams' poem This Is Just To Say.
Anonymous,
This shield I wield has been forever sealed,
in a tomb it shall lay.
Through bitter trolls and x-ray polls,
it served to save the day.
Though held for moderation,
it required little consideration,
For it worked both night and day.
Alas it's defeat has come dressed as a sheep,
I was invited to come and play.
Good-Bye.
Anonymous.
I like Olof's.
Great contest. I will try to work up an entry.
For now, I just have a suggestion for extra points for this contest: any time there's a reference to a Boing Boing subject, the line in the poem should contain a link to an article about that topic.
If this is adopted, then all posters prior to the adoption get a free chance to repost their poem with links.
(true story)
To whom it may concern
I write to you
to share in my complaint
as I was singled out in line
while trying to board my plane
They said that my name
was the same as on a list
my identity was cleared
but still I am rightly pissed
The Steampunk Goatse (with deepest apologies all around)
so much depends
upon
a steampunk
goatse
diy
podcast
with unicorn
chaser
Personally, introducing new roles other than first stated in THIS game seems finickity. I'd be happy to participate in a future game with rules like linking to subjects. But applying backwards compatible rules to this topic when it's had around 60 players already means an awful lot of resubmissions to get everyone on an even playing-ground - when we're already on an even playing-ground.
Balloon, goggles, cape
The Steampunk apocalypse
Cory is prepared.
I haven't seen anything mentioned about a deadline... art takes time (and various bodily fluids).
Sestina
Computers change culture.
Culture, which is to say learning, changes how we think.
Thinking is many and makes the world.
The world, which is to say our thoughts about the world, will, if made by computers
Be a series of plausible screens.
A screen makes or takes light. It is binary.
Mind, in the light, is not binary
Like the dying heart whose muscles make culture.
I have seen this on innumerable screens.
When I think
Of what goes off and on only, as with computers,
I do not imagine what I imagine to be the world.
What if the world,
Where dawn every day blurs into six billion dawns, was binary
In the extreme, day night day night, so that computers,
Plotting their revolutions, could only say culture,
Which is to say learning, is less than we think:
Only useless loose mud washed through small holes or yellow ore left on screens.
Then small articulate spaces carved through Japanese screens
Would be filled and silent in the world,
And someone, someone on horseback who cannot think,
Would fold unfolded wings and say: Let’s get binary,
babe, you and me. Culture,
Which is to say learning, is for old men without computers.
We hear that the young see only computers,
And leaving behind even television screens
They shrug off learning, which is to say culture.
They will invent the world
And young and old will be a binary
Within that machine, all knowing twice how not and how to think.
Do you think
That that can be so? Yes and no no more, only a nest of computers
Raising forked princes to hopscotch ,yes or no, over mysterious numbers, only binary
Animals mad for division, multiplying screens
On clever walls in a clever world—
All nestled like foods on a child’s plate, discreet, no blending, which is to say, without culture.
When I think of innumerable screens,
Of dividing machines (which is to say computers) in the seamless profligate world,
Which we will see is not binary, I think I am not learning, which is to say I am old, which is to say I am not without culture.
hehe
Ala Yeats
A Lone Soldier Contemplates His Loss
Surrounded by blooming heather a withered old man in a ruinous uniform remembers.
He remembers August day when the finest of Scotland went to their fate in the bloody mist of
a summer day, simple soldier he a bastion, eternal.
A Colossus, a pillar of Rhodes was he, yet green with youth and splendor.
His left arm is missing now, tis naught but a shriven stump.
Where it once did hold a verdant shield against all victorious is now lost and barren.
His right arm the strength it did wield sheltered all who sought comfort;
a crook now, a mere support upon a wall of thrumming stone set twixt the past and present.
That fateful day he did stand proud before the onslaught of the British.
The wind did shriek and the wind did howl but so hardy and hale was he.
‘Twas a rallying point of peace and calm; how many fell beneath his shadow?
He is bent now a withered husk where horses still pass by, though he may never follow.
A Sheppard now lies at his once proud feet; straight of limb and flushed with youth.
He dreams of a lass with flaxen hair and his wedding day this September.
He cares little about the past and perceives less about the future.
This bent and lonely tree will fan his dreams and guard him with ever watchful eyes.
and LOL
ala. a Sonnet
For my Father
Rene! Why hast thou left? Thoust fields are afire
Your children have fled and the hearth is unmanned.
The axes you have forged have dulled sunk into mire
The hour is here, your heart must demand.
You taught us worship upon foreign thrones
Our minds and our hearts yearn for your wisdom
But for wisdom we glean tis naught but slick stones
Vast pillar of knowledge and lore keeper undone
Abandoned, left tortured forsaken acquit
Many battles been fought true many been won
Not all hast come to naught I am bound to admit
Your memory is as ageless thou mighty gorgon
Bereaved and bereft is our esprit, with no tiller to steer
I pray I write loud enough for your immortal soul to hear
More Disney linkage?
How can a copyfighter
Turn such a blind eye?
How can I contribute a prize?
Ahem....
There once was this fanboy at Wired
Determined to get himself fired
Tatooed BoingBoing on his *ss
And it's not hard to guess
Where the drillfigure may be admired
Well, not particularly deep, but true!
In summer I flew
sans identification
now, I am listed
First!
Annabel LED
It was many and many a year ago,
In a dirigible by the sea,
That a robot there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LED;
And this robot she lived with no other thought
Than to mod and be modded by me.
I was a welder and she was welded,
In this dirigible by the sea;
But we modded with a mod that was more than mod-
I and my Annabel LED;
With a love that the ominous lawyers
Resented her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this dirigible by the sea,
A plane flew out of a cloud, scanning
My beautiful Annabel LED;
So that its camera eyes peered
And broadcast her mods on CCTV,
To surveil her hardware with persistence
In this dirigible by the sea.
The lawyers, not half so happy in boardrooms,
Went spying on her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this dirigible by the sea)
That the plane came out of the cloud by night,
Scanning and surveilling my Annabel LED.
But our mods they were stronger by far than the laws
Of those who were greedier than we-
Of many far slimier than we-
And neither the lawyers in boardrooms above,
Nor the RIAA down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my mods from the hardware
Of the beautiful Annabel LED.
For the blogs never update without bringing me memories
Of the beautiful Annabel LED;
And the copyright never ends but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel LED;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my work and my pride,
In the junkyard there by the sea,
In a parts bin by the sounding sea.
As I emerge from my slumber
Barely able to make a sound
I shuffle, my steps encumbered
I collapse upon the ground
With effort I regain my stance
A snarl escapes my throat
I pass a mirror and at it glance
and note my body’s bloat
Discoloration of my skin
My face is swollen and marred
I try to recall where I’ve been
But thinking hurts, it’s hard
Into the kitchen, I shuffle towards
My roommate sitting there
I advance and seek my just rewards
Encased in skull in hair
She cries out as I attack
We struggle, tumbling to the floor
She fends me off with a cranial smack
She looks shaken to the core
“What the hell!†she shouts at me
“You’re mind is really askewâ€
I growl and she laughs with glee
“You’re not a zombie, jerk, you have the fluâ€
What sense have I of privacy
Captured worldwide by CCD
What? My T-shirt-blinking LCD
A science project, can't you see?
A rogue I'm not, nor terrorist
In my heart and hopes a place exists
Where creativity, joy, and love persist
In tweaking capacitors, batteries...you know the list
I crave not mountains of money, just recognition
My work is mine, not yours, my precondition
To speak freely and truly is my ambition
Without gratuitous charges of acts of sedition
For all the pluses of this great nation
Our leadership (not Obama!?!) suffers a failure of imagination
Posting for later.
I want that GoW2 Zune really bad, my current Zune is nearing the end of his life.
Oh come on now, WHY
would anyone want to read
BoingBoing poetry?
The Dead have risen this very day
Friends once but now undead,
There's nothing you can do or say.
Through doors and windows, night and day
They come to end your life.
There's nothing you can do or say.
Scream out "Mother" "Father" "Lover"
Their reply is to tear out your throat.
No hope, but hell to pay.
Will your blog or twitter show the way
To survive this dark multitude,
And survive another day?
Your smarm and writing won't stop the fray
Your flesh tears as easily as the homeless.
So much for your BFA.
-apologies to Edwin Arlington Robinson
A Pantoum? Okay then:
Web Zen
So, we hit 'Refresh' again
To read a newer page
An electric kind of zen
In our present BoingBoing age
To read a newer page
Is the motive of the act
In our present BoingBoing age.
To record, and not redact.
Is the motive of the act
To have our discourse capped?
To record and not redact
When disemvoweling may be apt?
To have our discourse capped;
An electric kind of zen
When disemvoweling may be apt.
So we hit 'Refresh' again.
I think that I shall never see
A pundit as vocal as Cory.
On DRM, his heart does rage
For page and page and page and page.
From Silver Lake to London Square
He fights oppression everywhere.
He will not tolerate a crook
nd thn h sys, "Hy, by my bk!"
The magic smoke did waft
Through my nostrils which oft
Gathered the rich sent of fresh technology
From the farm of cubicles
Where the rockstars shine like astrology
And I practice the budding field of zombology
Copper, aluminum, and steel
Instead we’re made to kneel
Minds empty and stiff as boards
I for one welcome our new insect overlords
When what to my wondering eye should appear?
But a purple sparkly unicorn
With a rainbow sprung from its rear
Video of such a feat must surely be near
Thus has my surfing come to its end,
What hath science wrought?
In this time that I spend
Back to those selfsame overlords
But this shit sucks and now I’m bored
My inconsequential vote is for cloudform @73.
Nice work with the Annabel Lee/LED.
An English sonnet in iambic pentameter:
O, British Columbia, on your coast
lone feet are found; men's size ten Adidas
mysteriously severed from their host
thrown from sea to sand and bracken brush.
O, feet, do you hark from fiery crash?
Or a fisherman whose widow still waits?
Was your body taken by the sea, vast
and cruel, one-footed to Poseidon's gates?
How curious! Boing-Boingers conjecture
on foul play, murder, and foot fetish:
Scrolling past posts about crafts and Darfur
to comment on the crimes with five-toed twists.
But ask the man whose leg ends at the shin:
Are wet, severed feet a wonderful thing?
One day, the ghost of Tennyson's going to get me.
-----
One post more, one post more,
One post more to read,
All in the Series of Tubes
Surfed the BoingBoingers.
"Forward the Steampunk Brigade!
Charge for the Commons!" he said.
Into the Series of Tubes
Surfed the BoingBoingers.
"Forward, the Steampunk Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the steampunks knew
Some one had betray'd.
They, sure to make reply,
They, sure to reason why,
They, sure to DIY.
Into the Series of Tubes
Surfed the BoingBoingers.
RIAA to right of them,
MPAA to left of them,
DRM in front of them
Bluster'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with virus and shell,
Boldly they streamed and well,
Into the copyright of Death,
Into the EULA of hell
Surfed the BoingBoingers.
Humm'd all their zeppelins there,
Humm'd as they turn'd in air
Bombarding the lawyers there,
Defying an army, while
All the Tubes wonder'd.
Plunged in the harddrive-smoke
Right thro' security they broke;
RIAA and MPAA
Reel'd from the people's stroke
Shatter'd, proud enjoiners.
Then they rode back, but not,
Not the BoingBoingers.
RIAA to right of them,
MPAA to left of them,
DRM behind them
Bluster'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with virus and shell,
While OS and user fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the copyright of Death,
Back from the EULA of hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of the BoingBoingers.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild torrent they made!
All the Tubes wonder'd.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Steampunk Brigade,
Noble BoingBoingers!
Photos, Futuretense (Robots & The Imagination of the World)
In black and white:
A chrome arm, speckled in grommets and rivets,
and wrapped in black-black wire,
pulled away from the body
and resting against a bed of dark, ringlet curls.
In color:
Cinnamon-tanned toes,
nails unpainted and ripped short,
hiding in plastic-shined fake grass.
In sepia:
Little girls in polka-dotted party dresses,
pressing their lips against either side
of a square-headed, square-bodied, square-legged robot,
whose belly of lights form a heart.
Xeni with her sex and nerd,
Frauenfelder's art.
Pesco comes with "have you heard?"
Doctorow is smart.
Every Boinger has his meme,
Choosing with intoning,
The worst obsession I find, then,
Would have to be ear coning.
a new game to play
but at what cost the crowd cries
your soul or your time?
Check out Charles Platt
No fear of going splat
Finally finds his flying car
Built by a guy whos name is car-
dozo from the isle of Brit
Bozo's gonna pilot it
From London on to Timbuktu
Now can I please have one, too?
What Luck! I just wrote a short little zombie-ditty the other day, inspired by my recent discovery of the COMPLETELY AWESOME existence of the honest-to-goodness "Physics Catacombs" in the basement of my Uni's science building (they have fricking uranium down there). There's a cheery, folksy guitar part as well!
Here goes:
Oh I love the catacombs
Where the zombies go to play
They will eat you, rip out your brains
And your corpse will join their ranks
But the wise ones will be wary
Ceasing not their vigilance
Zombie flesh and skulls aplenty
Their shotguns shall duly mince
The catacombs welcome you too
Drab though their corridors may be
Residents more eager for your presence
You will not find easily
When the zombies are away
Survivors fortify their defense
This small band of grisly brethren
Must for meager numbers recompense
The catacombs are such great fun
We can shoot and scream all day
And if we ever get too weary
Death is one small bite away
The remainder will be troubled
For no matter what they do
Their trusty firearms will need bullets
And their ammo is nearly through
Oh I love the catacombs
Where the zombies go to play
They will eat you, rip out your brains
And your corpse will join their ranks
oh! I read the magic boing-boing
here on the net
and troll amongst her commentors
with my right-wing sobriquet
teresa, anti, avram
watch what we discuss
and moderate my astroturf
in a disemvowelling huff
damn! the formatting didnt work out. it was supposed to read like " puff the magic dragon". oh, well.
As posted as a comment on:
http://www.boingboing.net/2008/01/09/tsa-searches-detains.html
The World had changed. No one said
for the better. The towers fell, all reeled
from the disaster. A change they said was what
was needed after. TSA would save us all forever.
Hiring people was what I knew. The coffers opened for
us to use. A monumental project to correct the actions of
the few. A brave new day for all of us to finally do some good.
Across the country I flew, to speak and teach, and preach to the
choir. Good times, new times, jobs for all. We had been hit, but
stronger it would make us all.
They came in droves to apply for their new life. Old and young,
smart and dumb. Hold the mouse in the air, click and yell towards the screen,
you have been counted, move along, continue with your dream.
Hotel conference rooms, Inside of airports, airplanes,
shuttle busses, one after another. Recirculated air brings sickness and gives no
pleasure. On and on it went one day into the other.
Contract ends, life moves on, my work did not seem to matter. What came
then was no better than what preceded the disaster. Years had passed
here I came with a two year old in tow off to see Orlando. I’m sorry sir his shoes
must come of, for your safety, and that of others I am just doing as I am told.
a gal named Xeni,
steampunk, unicorns, MAKE/CRAFT
a grown man still called Cory?
will finally bent
assimilation complete
a final tear drops.
High five for 25 28 42 56 and my favorite -- 73
MintP - It's very much better now that I know that. For mine I included a link to the piece I was subverting to clarify the meter. (Moon River).
Jamie Sue - the comment numbers change when anonymous comments are cleared and added into the middle of the convo.
If we're voting we should prob use names instead of numbers.
MSDORAN,
That was beautiful.
OOOOHHHHHH
Who lives in a zeppelin full of zombies?
Co-ry Doc-torow!
Begoggled and flippant and naughty is he!
Co-ry Doc-torow!
If steampunk and blogging be something you need
Co-ry Doc-torow!
Then offer your brains for Cory to feed!
Co-ry Doc-torow! Co-ry Doc-torow! Co-ry Doc-torow!
Co-ry Doc-torow!
Great entries so far folks, keep it up!!
JS7A: nice
I prefer the shotgun method of winning.
Steam shooting sharp sings
catching cogs cause commotion
Fins flap forcing flight
the gauge is filling
put on your goggles
don't fail at flying
pressure builds up fast
the pipes begin to quake loud
time to turn on the machine
Nothing is as fun
To fly straight through your first cloud
and come out alive
Condensations forms
inside goggles dark and odd
i love free fall repairs
I Gama-Go you
Gama-go We Gama-go
Boing-Boing shirts on sale
If only someone
made a bazooka that shot
unicorns. Holy crap.
Cory Doctorow
Master of the Internet
Human or MACHINE?
My Boing-Boing
Dives deep into art and tech
quiet beauty shown
Xeni Xeni Xeni Jardin
breath fresh air into this day
and make the news fun
Kung Fu master is
Standing, staring straight at me
Never cross Mark F.
Wind rushes by me
Fell off the bike-plane again
this is going to hurt.
Haikus are easy
Maybe I will swoop in here
and take Zune from you.
Marmalade is good
if you are not in Texas
But I am. Yee-haw.
Talk in code, you fool
The government is tapping
this haiku 'click' 'click'
My Zune broke last year
And I loved it oh so much
Give me yours please.
Was that bigfoot there?
He was tall, dark and handsome.
You fool, that was Mark.
I will win with force
haiku zerg rush this contest
Please give me the Zune.
Watch out for David.
I heard once that he might be
the chupicabra.
Please pick the best here.
and please let one of them win.
Pretty, pretty please.
Even if I don't win, I hope all of you found these amusing.
Hope this counts. Set to "We Didn't Light the Fire" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E8lrRvuwczk
See if you know all the references! :D
Left 4 Dead, Ro-mair-Oh, Fallout 3 has ghoul-ee-ohs
Shopping malls, brains on walls, zombie dogs attack us all
Walking dead, lifeless eyes, broken limbs, rotting thighs,
Evil Dead, Simon Pegg, Resident Evil
Shotguns, pistols, automatic missiles
Minigun attached to legs: always good to go
Aim for the head, watch the spray, reload your gun, go and pray
Throw another Molotov, get off your ass and run
We didn’t start the zombies
No, we tried to fight them
Metaphors describe them
We didn’t start the zombies
It was chemical agents
Or outer space rayguns
Fido was a funny show, voodoo will enslave us all,
had a blast with Evil Ash and undead Monroe
Dead Alive, Half Life 2, Apocalypse, Extinction,
Chopper Chicks in Zombie Town, where’s the fucking ammo?
Planet Terror, fight or run? Boy Eats Girl, Brain Suckers
Selena killed Mark with a knife
Slow, fast, eat your ass,
Pull out your insides
We didn’t start the zombies
They were always walkin’
Where we used to park ‘em
We didn’t start the zombies
They should be slow
Zack Snyder did bad
We didn’t start the zombies
They’ll eat your brain
Make you live again
We didn’t start the zombies
I started one burnin’
But now they’re learnin’
With apologies to Wesley Willis
Barack Obama
Barack Obama!
You are the President!
You are the greatest!
You whupped the Republicans’ ass!
Bar-ack Obam-a!
Bar-ack Obam-a!
Bar-ack Obam-a!
Bar-ack Obam-a!
You are a powerful cheetah!
You are a presidential rock star!
Sarah Palin can go back to Alaska,
And eat a Moose’s ass!
Bar-ack Obam-a!
Bar-ack Obam-a!
Bar-ack Obam-a!
Bar-ack Obam-a!
Your middle name is Hussein!
You are my main dude in the White House!
You whupped John McCain’s ass!
You are going to rock out all over the economy!
Bar-ack Obam-a!
Bar-ack Obam-a!
Bar-ack Obam-a!
Bar-ack Obam-a!
Rock over London!
Rock over Chicago!
Insure One!
It’s a name you can trust!
I had a blast with this. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it...
my sex-bot she protected me
from the army of the dead
jaws agape they dragged themselves
to feast upon my head
the doors they splintered under fist
and claw of undead hand
with nowhere left for me to go
I made my final stand
dismembering my undead foes
I fought with all my might
revolver blasts from my left hand
and a hatchet in my right
a second death I gave to them
more lasting than the first
tore limb from body, flesh from bone
I made their heads burst
but like a bloody tide of ocean
rushing into shore
I hacked and maimed and killed and slew
but always were there more
behind my weak and tired body
my sex-bot stood so still
not programmed for the death at hand
not programmed how to kill
finally I tripped and fell
the end truly in sight
and that's when she came to me
an angel haloed in light
she tore the clothes off herself
exposed her erotic form
synthetic flesh designed for lust
became center of their storm
my lover made of gears and cogs
designed to give me pleasure
appeared to them the ultimate
in ripe and fleshy treasure
their zombie minds in lust of blood
left me there forgotten
her perfect body torn limb from limb
by creatures dark and rotten
and as I ran into the night
to hide until the morn
I saw that love could exist
in a robot made for porn
-Deviant
I came to Boing-Boing via an article,
about the human front-side bus,
I've stayed past the stories of the god particle,
and BB's "them" I now feel as "us"
I get by
With a little help
From my friends.
Oh for shit, somebody wrote that already...
The Boing Boing Mash
A finer writ there never was,
On papercraft and omnibus.
A gadgets page for techno-stuff,
The Regular for fun and fluff.
It's not these two that draw us in,
but brass goggles and rotting skin.
We came for laugh and came for jeer,
but it's zombie-punk that keeps us here.
Rancid-flesh mad-scientist,
Shine and gore you can't resist.
Draw us deep within the style,
whirring gears and undead bile.
Steam-driven deaths that plague the pages,
Two great loves and two great rages.
A marriage of things we enjoy,
The tie-on of our brain's employ.
And so I say there never was,
A better mix; below; above,
BoingBoing's grave-soil-clockwork-dove,
Brought joy to a reader....
With Love,
Cigar Hero
Fragment of an epic attributed to Homer:
Book IV
Sing, O Muse, of the War Among the Stars
Sing of the Galaxy Far Away and the Time Long Ago
When fatherless Vader, face-scarred, driven by Ares and Enyo
Chased the ship of flashing-eyed Leia and threw fire upon its decks
Burning many men, others struck down as though by arrows or shot
Many wounded, yet more dragged down to the houses of the Dead
Their bodies a feast for dogs and carrion birds
Their halls empty save for the wailing of women
Sing of the island Tatooine, shining jewel in the night sky
But barren-shored, burning, home to pirates and lizards
And of the two men, closer than brothers
One gold-formed, the other alabaster, worked with silver and fine lapis
Cast down onto the sand by the Fates, to wander
With messages from their princess, taken by warlike Vader, his prize
Though watched over by bold Athena and fleet-footed Hermes
Ode To BoingBoing
I see that Cory penned another tome!
It’s free for download and it’s all the rage!
He signed ten thousand copies in his home
In England, where it’s still the steam train age.
Dear Xeni’s gone again out on the road:
Apparently she’ll get to talk to God!
Of course there will be pictures to upload-
Let’s hope that Xeni’s make-up’s not too odd!
George Harrison was of a former age:
Our Dave’s the one whose inner life runs deep.
Today we had one comment from this sage:
For two more months we will not hear a peep.
A sonnet’s short; I hope that for Mark’s sake
It’s good enough to say he’s on the make.
A Poetickall Epistle Direckted at Our Moderator By Way of Metrickall Clarification:
But limericks are formal verse,
the same as vilanelles; you err
thus separating the two. Worse,
although their differences are fair,
they're unremarked by you: silk purse,
sow's ear, don't make of them a pair,
two distinct objects they, diverse.
:D
Once, as I installed Ubuntu
on my modded laptop (soon to
be the envy of the con) and
headbanged to some chiptune jazz,
suddenly I craved a Zune to
load with shots of fembot poon, to--
what's that noise? Who's in my room? Arrrfhg!
Quoth the Cthulhu, “You can haz.â€
Oh, and my vote is for CK @86.
Oh, ugh. I mean Cthulhu.
Fixed!
This is just to say…
I’m sorry I tortured your citizens of the world and made you take your shoes off at the airport.
It’s just that terrorists hate our freedom and you would rather feel safe than actually be safe.
Ahem:
Our planet is third from the sun
And on it we've nothing but fun.
We laugh and we play
And we all get our say,
And in a few years, we are done.
Or, rather
Our planet is moving in space.
It's drudgery's what sets our pace.
We toil and we toil,
Then it's back to the soil:
Only thus can we finish the race.
Although I'm ineligible, Teresa suggested that I reprint my offering from this thread:
I am the very model of a pustule horological
With information temporal, arcane and chronological
My retrograde time zones display with double linearity
With indication arrows to avoid any disparity.
My timbre rings the hours with a tone ecclesiastical
My two and sixty jewels keep time in measure most fantastical
I've eighteen K vibrations in an hour for my frequency
But...
My price strikes some as being an offense to common decency!
My price strikes some as being an offense to common decency!
My price strikes some as being an offense to common decency!
My price strikes some as being an offense to common decency!
msdoran @ 93 - awesome meter.
As darkness gathers round
With fans the only sound
Strange bits from far and wide
Assemble side by side
Tales of the arts and crafts
Of politics and graft
To tickle and incite
Each link a tasty bite
Eight brave curious scribes
On EM waves do ride
They search a tangled web
Hungry mutants must be fed
Both bodily functions
And lofty conjunctions
Share these blogger’s pages
Ark of fools and sages
Amazing creations, gadget porn
Zombie kittens, steamed unicorns
A cryptozoo of loveable freaks
Scary monsters and super geeks
So each night as darkness creeps
Whilst my little house doth sleep
I read their posts and share my tea
With friends I’ll surely never see
Trading opinions, music, and poems
Line by line we write this tome
Disemvoweled cmmnts, unpublished rants
Whether at work or home in underpants
The mutants dance, they dance and dance
MDH: Thanks for that! I never noticed that they changed. :)
Ok, High Five for FriendlyNeighborhood, OLOF, fleaboy and my personal fav: CloudForm
antinous @ 120
I mentioned that same 4-month old thread above because I want you to win this contest for that comment.
Suggestion for future games in comments: I created a baroque set of rules to be played on message boards called "Prepare To Be Boarded!", which could easily work in BB comments. The main gimmick is to "reduce" date/time/post numbers into a practically random number, and use it the same way you'd use dice.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/alabaster/A589656
I posted the rules on The Forge (www.indie-rpgs.com) in hopes of getting feedback, but it was criticized as encouraging trolling behavior, so I never got around to playtesting it. The trolly bits could be modified out of it without too much trouble. Or maybe boingers wouldn't judge it to be as trolly as some Forgers felt.
Here are some blurbs that actual people wrote about it without me paying them to:
"Unconscionable"
"Ethically questionable but brilliant"
"The game you propose squicks my consensuality nerve."
"...The idea of this game [is] a fascinating study in social manipulation and human behavior."
@44 Shutz
I like your ideas of imaginary BB articles & 6- and 50-word stories--for the latter, middle ground could be a 130 character limit to make them SMS-/tweet-able...
@83 Kuanes, @123 Jamie Sue
Thanks for the shout-outs on my Annabel Lee adaptation!
残念ãªãŒã‚‰
英詩をã¾ã›ã‚“。
ãŒã—ã‚“ãŸã‚Œã€‚
Until Boing Boing Rests
There is a place where Robots play,
The yellow LEDs lead the way.
A sea of hackers loot the bay.
Steamy Punks wet in leathery dew,
Pound that Robot, make love stew.
The RIAA watches you.
Wars are fought among the Stars,
Your buddy Chewie navigates your papercraft car.
Does Copyright bother you?
Deathly zombies are not we?
Never, Cory has set us free!
Ideas flow free, built upon by the community.
This our mantra we will not stray.
We stand tall to the darkest day,
Till the TSA haul us all away.
I want you to win this contest for that comment.
Thank you, but employees, subcontractors, long lost cousins, etc. of Happy Mutants LLC aren't eligible.
I gotta flip this track like wick the wack
grab the mic, log in, up the comment stack
FIFO ... but I'm late to the game
Guess better that than being totally lame
Forsooth! Tally-ho! Bionicled and Dapper
Mayhaps I'll just claim to be a Steampunk Rapper
Spraypaint my rhymes bronze add a gear or two
Advise Graham Bell with my tooth of blue
Maybe jump to the front lines of the copyfight
Stand up for the people, bring the truth to light
But Doctorow's on and leaves the labels boggled
Greedy, outdated business models totally scroggled
(Get it? It's about his eyewear something or other
and a story where Google goes all big brother)
OK, I agree - it was a bit overthought
But this is Boing Boing! We're overthinkers the lot!
Right, back to the point before they disemvowell
Ummmm - ever considered raising urban fowl?
Making craft out of paper, reading XKCD?
Setting up a title fight between Joel and Brownlee?
It's all right here at the place to go
Where I know that they won't ever tase me, bro.
They Unicorn Chase me, bro
Disclaimer : the contents of my amazing poem don't necessarily reflect my real thoughts.
LURKER LAMENT
Lots of posts on Boing Boing annoy me
But I still check the site daily
Why?
Is it because of the steampunk?
No! Mixing Fantasy and Westerns
drives me into a funk!
Do I just wanna hate on the TSA?
No! Though they are frightening,
I’m not a terrorist, okay?
Do I wish to try some unlikely mods?
No! Being good with my hands is not,
a talent granted to me by God.
Is it because of the art of papercraft?
No! Papercuts really hurt and
I want to avoid needing a skin graft.
Am I interested in mashups?
No! Are you kidding me?
I wish they’d all shut up!
Is it because of the gadgets?
No! I’m just not into them!
Sorry for being such a wet blanket.
Emergent properties of the Zombie Apocalypse?
No! Thinking of my inevitable doom
makes me talk with a lisp.
DIY or FISA or LEDs, FTW?
No! WTF!
I hate using acronyms.
Do I want to find out more about comics?
No! Those posts are kinda scary,
filled with fanatics.
Am I interested in photographer’s rights?
No! I respect people’s privacy so
I sleep well at night.
Is it wristwatches or clocks?
No! They’re about as interesting
as watching my grandma knit socks.
Could it be I like skiffy history?
No! Though I like science fiction,
my hate for history is legendary.
Am I worried about misused tasers?
No! Those tools were made necessary
by a national disaster.
Do I like making a foo out of a bar?
No! Who would like
doing something so bizarre?
Then am I into cryptozoology?
No! That word makes no sense,
even when I look at its etymology
Am I looking for news on Tibet?
No! It’s a foreign country,
I don’t care about yet.
Do I want to read about animation?
No! When I see some on tv,
I change the station.
Is it copyright abuse?
No! Stealing is bad,
and I have a very short fuse.
Could it be I like drives?
No! I don’t even understand,
why that subject survives.
Do I like reading about hacks?
No! The thought of someone in my computer
gives me panic attacks.
Is it posts on sex?
No! I find it disgusting when
woman get treated as objects.
Lots of posts on Boing Boing annoy me
But I still check the site daily
Why?
Because of robots! I love robots!
They make me feel as if
Boingers and I are compatriots.
From "Your shoe is jacked into my eye" and "Call to makers: woman wants webcam to replace lost eye"
What does it mean? Phos says, not much. And yet
let's Make a web cam eye, a brave new phiz,
a window one way, Moody's patch, to set
things right for one eyed Jill, no Maker wiz.
A shame it is no new idea. G'kar
had one. In Ender's Game, as well. And ere
it's built, and on, and we can spy from far
away her day to day, 'tis vaporware.
No way to hide a battery, and wires
won't do. No robots, we. Our guts, our chains
we hide beneath our skins: we all are liars.
It's art that tells the truth, and not our brains.
And where to hold the ones and ohs that spew?
A thumb drive, or an EyePod? or her shoe?
@Cloudform: Annabel Lee is one of Poe's best, great job!
#35 posted by jazzbo , November 12, 2008 9:41 AM
I CAN HAZ FLYCAR?
OH! I HAS SLIPPD TEH SURLY BONDZ OV EARTH
AN DANCD TEH SKIEZ ON LAUGHTR-SILVERD WINGS LOL!,
SUNWARD I HAS CLIMBD, AN JOIND TEH TUMBLIN ROFL
OV SUN-SPLIT CLOUDZ - AN DUN HUNDRD THINGS
U HAS NOT DREAMD OV - WHEELD AN SOARD AN SWUNG
HIGH IN DA SUNLIT SILENCE. HOVRIN THAR,
I HAS CHASD TEH SHOUTIN WIND ALONG, AN FLUNG
MAH EAGR CRAFT THRU FOOTLES HALLS OV AIR.
UP, UP TEH LONG, DELIRIOUS BURNIN BLU
I HAS TOPPD TEH WIND-SWEPT HEIGHTS WIF EASY GRACE
WER NEVR LARK, OR EVEN EAGLE FLEW.
AN, WHILE SILENT, LIFTIN MIND I HAS TROD
TEH HIGH UNTRESPASD SANCTITY OV SPACE,
PUT OUT MAH HAND, AN TOUCHD TEH FACE OV CEILIN CAT.
Oh, this is splendid. I'm wondering whether I should get an outside judge to help me.
I set upon the task of gaming
"We Can Has Games" and naming
my lines, my words, recalling verse
of robots, no more, nothing worse:
Circuit-bending bots beware-y
of newer posts and dispatches more scary
than your attenuated sinews' reach,
Telling each instance of social breach,
Lingering clicks in our analog sleep.
Perchance to blog at GMT -14
Sunrise on Chiba's rail system steam
Where droids and mechs linger uncharged,
in hangars and houses of warez, at large,
waiting to govern the fate of the meat.
Big-endian machinations, the jugger- and dreadnought,
Skynet, AI, "Monkey Uses Thought to Move Robot"
or "Elderly Japanese Attended by Cyber Nurse"...
Alas! I am not programmed for formal verse.
omg, jazzbo.
Cloudform said:
I like your ideas of imaginary BB articles & 6- and 50-word stories--for the latter, middle ground could be a 130 character limit to make them SMS-/tweet-able...
I've written a bunch of 50-word stories already, and believe me, none of them fit within the 130 character limit of SMS messages. Think about it, you're asking for stories with words that are less than 2 letters long, on average (since spaces and punctuation has to be counted, as well.)
But a separate game/contest of telling stories in SMSpeak, with the 130 character limit (I'd like to get a confirmation as to the official limit, as I remember reading somewhere that the limit was 126, but that some carriers support much longer messages.)
Another game of sorts we could do is declare "forum war" on another, similar site, such as Fark or Digg, but specify in the rules that the war has to be circumscribed to one or a limited few articles/threads, and that any "collateral damage" would result in penalties for the people involved.
Hi. I'm new. Here's what came out. It started like something out of "Prize Winner of Defiance, Ohio," then kind of took a "We Didn't Start the Fire" turn in the middle there. I usually don't like to argue with my art, so I went with it.
I come as a newbie and this must be said
The lure of such freebies this lurker has dread
I lived in the shadows and read all your posts
But now I’m exposed to the thing I fear most
Your WTF DIY cyberpunk ethic
Has made a big dent in my life all too hectic
The steampunk of Gibson, the rotten beach dog
(I found John Entwistle a most unlikely Mod)
The mashup of subjects like cryptids and cows
The threat of a Zombie Apocalypse Now
FISA listens on the phone
Monitors my posted poem
Creative Commons copyrights
Taser beams in dawn’s daylight
Robot sex and robot hacks
Hacking sex and hackysacks
Photo rights and photo wrongs
Sing the Dalai Lama’s songs
Nine-volt AM radio
(Is Zune a better way to go?)
Gadgets, gear and papercraft
Billy Joel without a raft
Bars of foo and skiffy stories
Tom and Jerry gettin’ gory
(LBJ took the IRT down to central TSA.
When he got there what did he see?
A spoof of a “Hair†lyric in LEDs)
If in my mind a leuk I’ve sproing
I leave this note to blame Boing Boing
And if you don’t find my entry cunning
Please lie and say I’m in the running
STEAMPUNK ELEGY
There was a hum of music in the air
before the war,
The Great War, when everything changed,
Or so said Virginia Woolf, a sad Cassandra
astride the cusp of ages.
Cold, sleek boxes, machines assembling machines,
obliterate the opulent surfaces of our past,
Lurid, flickering screens feed our electric dreams
in post-modern, hard-edged cages.
Gaslight shadows cast a glamour of promise
and mystery,
Men firm of jaw and purpose roam the world
making history.
Linen and silver, an elegant formality,
Steam and brass, industry, brutality.
Strongminded women in high-collared laces,
Waltzes catch lovers in swooning embraces.
The Clockmaker is grandfather to the cloner
and coders,
We view our world from Victorian shoulders.
Honor the fabricator, make the workings plain,
Fabulous engines in processional train.
Stride forth, your boots and corsets laced,
Goggles blurring gimcrack waste.
As we look back and count the cost,
Progress gained need not mean beauty lost.
This one is slightly more serious, written in villanelle (my first ever!) in response to this comment by Antinous
---------------------------------
Your country's gender disjunction
An anal-vaginal conjunction
A fusion that's quite sure to vex
Your country's gender disjunction
Fundamental psychological function
Expression of person and sex
An anal-vaginal conjunction
State-enforced laws and compunction
The victims emotional wrecks
Your country's gender disjunction
Cries of moral dysfunction
Gut-level emotive reflex
An anal-vaginal conjunction
An immoral legal injunction
Over-wrought balances and checks
Your country's gender disjunction
For this problem I see no unction
The issues are deep and complex
An anal-vaginal conjunction
Your country's gender disjunction
---------------------------------
Zombiefication
Indeed, I am a zombie now.
I'm dead.
A fact with wich I'm not entirely
pleased.
I rather wish I was alive
instead.
But here I am, quite thoroughly
deceased.
"Tell us," you demand, "what death is
like!"
But I don't think you want to know that
yet.
It is like learning how to ride a
bike.
For once you know you never can
forget.
The zombie deal i really not that
fun,
though. My fun is pretty much all in the
past.
I really have to stay out of the
sun.
And eating brains gets old extremely
fast.
Wow. I'm the Beatrice Portinari of orifice dysphoria.
I submit a sestina about the power of visual art, the decline of western civilization, obsessive collecting, and Pan, Greek god of music and sex, among other things. To make it even more structured than a normal loosey-goosey sestina, I followed the added restriction of building the endings of the key-words sequentially, as in: -p, -pa, pan, pane, panel, panels. Enjoy (or endure)!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When finally the dust had settled, only one did reach the top
Of the wild and waxen bloody heap that once was old Europa.
Who else should rise and caper there, but the sordid satyr known as Pan.
His odor rank and pelt so ruffled, but his eyes did shine like a polished pane.
His prize a painted picture panel
Prized above all other panels.
And this much can be said of panels
Be they blank or painted, front or top
That whosoever should prize a single panel
Above the spoils of all Europa,
His heart is not a cloudless vista, nor his mind a polished pane.
Nor has any made such claims of the perfectly peerless piper Pan.
And what is known of nefarious Pan,
Fancier of fancy panels,
Bane of maidens’ counterpane?
Simply that he claimed the top
Of the heap of old Europa
Secure in his stock of only one portentously potent panel.
And what was painted on this panel
Pursued with persistence by pernicious Pan?
The heavy heart of old Europa
Halfway held in a host of panels,
Here was held in full and to the top
And seen as through the purest polished pane
So through this perfect polished pane
At the exsanguine heart of the painted panel
Did gaze upon his claiming of the top
The sagest of the satyrs, solitary Pan,
A connoisseur of crafted panels
Unmatched in all Europa.
And on the slag of old Europa
In shards and slivers like a shattered pane
All for the love of precious panels
And especially one special panel
Even Pan
Did cast a tear from his lonely redoubt at the top
Of the heap of old Europa. In his hand at the precious panel,
Gazing through his eyes of polished pane, did weary Pan
Reflect upon the worth of panels and himself, the only lonely one who reached the top.
I am having a blast reading all of these, as well as participating.
it is clear that I won't win, but still.
It's well worth it.
#141: Applause. Wonderful first post. :)
Gear Heart, How like you this?
Red, repeating, and full of space, for
Eros', and his stinging arrows to wedge, like a toothpick shard.
Ah, to be a constant target, and yet to continue
To churn and churn,
It's more than you can bear
Am I right?
Mad as I am, for assuming that you wish for
A life, free from turning hand?
Don't tell me, wait, wait-
Don't tell me,
I know the answer to this, you whispered it to me, on a night
Clear from steampunk gears.
"To beat!" you cried
"Eternal, independent."
Driving away tears, you pumped out a creaky
"To
Beat!
Or not to beat!" and
In this, you collapsed, for there was
No oil, for your gears.
God, how I wish you could live, times two.
//it's also an acrostic.
#144: HAHAHAHAHA!
Well, you opened that Pandora's box with your comment. (And hell, I guess it needs opening.)
What a cool idea! I am one of those proverbial long-time reader/first-time posters. A little riff on McCrae's "In Flanders Field"
On Martian Plains
On Martian plains the titans rust
Besides brave men who bore our trust.
Their iron shells reach to the sky
To mark the place where men did die.
Man and machine now turned to dust.
We are the Ghosts. Light years ago
We fought and fell, saw comets glow,
Crossed so much space, and now we lie
On Martian plains.
Put down your ‘tomic powered arms:
Turn from the path that deals out harm.
Reach for the stars with open minds,
Embrace the wonders that you find
An’ let us sleep, ‘til poppies grow
On Martian plains.
I'd like to resubmit (you can erase my first one if you like: #112). I thought that rhyming 'God' with 'odd' was a little too doggerel even for my doggerel sonnet, and the slightly sexist remark about Xeni didn't sit well with me as time passed (sorry, Xeni- it was early AM when I wrote it. Your make-up is fine. I called you 'lovely' this time to make up for it.) So I changed that stanza, and reversed two words to make it scan better.
Suggestion: Next time please set an official time limit so I know whether I should submit ASAP to get it in, or nurse my muse. It would also be good to have a ruling on multiple submissions.
--------------------
Ode To BoingBoing
I see that Cory penned another tome!
It’s free for download and it’s all the rage!
He signed ten thousand copies in his home
In England, where it’s still the steam train age.
The lovely Xeni’s always on the road:
She writes and talks and speaks from where she goes.
Of course there will be pictures to upload.
Of course there’ll be more BoingBoing TV shows.
George Harrison was of a former age:
Our Dave’s the one whose inner life runs deep.
Today we had one comment from this sage:
For two months more we will not hear a peep.
A sonnet’s short; I hope that for Mark’s sake
It’s good enough to say he’s on the make.
Good idea. First post on bb, but not the last.
Here's one in iambic pentameter, Shakespearean sonnet form.
"Encryptus"
The Alice, wind-born paper craft, flies high,
From washi, brass and twisted rope she’s wrought,
She soars through clouds and dusk and weirding sky,
Her engine modz GNU by zombie bots.
Commander Bob, this airship’s captain, dreams
Encrypted words to free the common weal,
From Timbuktu to Xanadu he steams
And seeks to cleanse from minds foul Riaa’s beal.
The copyfight’s not his alone to wage,
For All the clockwork tools to Make: and share
To bring rebirth of culture in this age
Is not alone his albatross to bear.
These mottos on her bow enlayed in brass:
Do It Thineself and In Libris Libertas!
notes on words:
beal(n): a pustule, pimple, lawyer (ahem).
Riaa: rhymes with diarrhea...
too many strong contenders, a top ten then? Most Honorable Mentions?
#153: No submission from you, Tak? Your English is clearly up to it. Or do you consider yourself too close to the management to enter? (You could still compose something, even if it weren't considered.)
In times of trouble, challenge or unrest,
many choose the low road as their way.
Perhaps subconsciously abandoning the best,
essential nature we all share in better days.
Anyone may stumble, trip and fall.
Can we expect perfection in one man?
Humility demands that we judge all
good intentions fairly. Yet we can
eaily forget that signs are there,
obvious to see and to convey
rigorous attention to the glare
governing the laws we all obey.
Each sign that sends another to a fall
will sign our trust is misplaced overall.
[posted as a comment to and as a comment on this post: http://www.boingboing.net/2008/11/11/burmese-blogger-rece.html]
[[a poem with a hidden message on a blog post about a poem with a hidden message; double recursive ;-) ]]
The Muse of Satori? If it comes, it comes, in the meantime, there is much to enjoy.
I came to Boing Boing via an article,
on the Human Front-Side Bus,
I've stayed through the god particle,
now feeling BB's "them" as "us".
Guerrilla Gardener
The lanes too narrow, the streets too bland,
Faded colours of a concrete land,
Bricks and wire have taken their toll,
He cannot rest, this tortured soul
He sees the metal, chrome and glass
But dreams of flowers and luscious grass,
Of vegetables and herbs taking root,
Of trees blossoming and bearing fruit
He creeps the streets with rake and hoe,
Stealthily clad from head to toe,
A concrete state he will prevent,
He sows his seeds of discontent.
#156: Indeed, the inscrutable Peter Murphy ended up something of a ṣūfī.
Enlightenment comes in many guises. May it find you soon.
Ozymandias
Two vast and rusty legs of Iron stand
Immovable upon the desert sand
Half-hidden in its own debris, a cold and
Tarnished visage lies, decaying in the ground
On its breastplate scattered ‘round
Is written this mechanized hand:
“Look on me, Ye Mighty, and
Despair!†Gigantic metal bands,
Springs, Cogs and Pieces of its unpowered hand
Lie lifeless on the powdered sand
And what was once enhanced with steam
Now only gleams in sunny ray
Eternally the lonely, level sands stretch far away
Kieran @159:
Indeed, th' inscrutable Peter Murphy
Wound up as something of a Surphy.
Enlightenment wears many guises.
May it find you soon: CAN HAZ SURPRISES.
Whose site this is I think I know
This art is from the village though
The boss won't see me stopping here
To watch this baby pygmy Hippo
My little LOLCat must think it queer
that my mouse should linger here
Between the gadgets and various Make
The donations 'gainst Censorware
I give my steampunk blender a shake
beg the moderator for a break
but the only other sound's the sweep
of my vowels on the take
The posts are lovely, weird and deep
But I have promises to keep
And lines to go before I sleep
And lines to go before I sleep
#161: Claps hands in delight.
Honestly, any happenstance of rhyme in that post was entirely unconscious.
#158: Aila, I can totally imagine weebls-stuff putting animation and music to that, a la The Electro Gypsy...
I have another idea for a future game:
Describe Boing Boing after the Singularity. This implies that you'll have to write about the singularity itself, but the focus of the piece should be what Boing Boing turns into after the event.
a wonderful prize
unless you live in Mac world;
cold autumn contest.
Going from Hello Kitty
to hello kinky
in two posts with a
unicorn closely following
It rises in the east (or is it the west?)
a chimeric zombie cyborg
augmented with megabit speed
and terabyte storage
Cut off its LCD head and
another guest blogger
rises with tales of bigfoot
and clever recycling
It has birthed and
destroyed nations
on a whim
(Infomercia you annoyed too many)
A probing data tentacle
exposing security misconduct
young adult novels
and redacted documents
It is
above all else
a directory of
wonderful things
Carousel
On A Reading Of BoingBoing
John Manoochehri
jmanooch@gmail.com
---
It was a day like any other day
A lingering perusal of the net.
But then: I found it straddling the way,
BoingBoing, a site, a sound, a 'tude, that set
The bar for kicks from talking...stuff.
It's clear: we know it's all gone off out there.
The future crashes in upon us, where
If war's not virtual by Baudrillard
It sure as hell is so by Gears of War.
The surface of the now is all too tough.
Lives lived in midst of ceaseless reinvention
Can choose to lose their view on whose values
Texture the modern moment's flow; or shun
Such novelty as them would hapless use.
The content of that now is not enough.
The human soul is not a difference engine
And it has reached a point in progress when Yin
Must wrap its gentling arms around the Yang
And hum the songs that once the wiseones sang
"Don't tell me what you have...just what you Love".
A living now is not a flick'ring screen -
Panic billboard crush-filled with noise and speed -
Instead a carousel, whose spinning, seen,
Lends past and future, both, a giddy heed.
Let's stand some ground and call the modern bluff.
Let Larry talk of who owns what and how;
Let Barry walk the walk, until, well, wow...
Let Cory caulk the timbers of the ship
Of stories so improbable they tip
Our mental gyroscopes: how we know stuff.
The modded bod, the blogging mog, HOWTO
Ballard Banhhart BuHoo Batman Bauhaus
Meltdown-Mashup, Steampunk-Gadgets, R2
Carlin Curtis Chinglish Kittens Congress
Chanel Shortsell Shanghai Shareware Shitknife
This is the site, the sound, the 'Tube, where tumbls
The carousel of all these modern moments.
A celebration of live nows which humbles
Hegemony and sloth, whose conscience foments
Our wakefulness: click here for Change.gov.
---
Notes
The poem is in classical iambic pentameter, with a quasi-classical ababc ddeec etc form. There some metrical breakbeats, of course; but the interest for me is in tackling the problem of rhyme. Rhyme is a problematic part of classical poetry - essentially it's usually stultifying, and often just bad - to deal with which, we can roughen the edges with half-rhyme, assonance, and de facto rhymes permited or forged by pronunciation. It's harder to jazz a rhyme - especially with a last-line rhyme locked across each stanza of the whole poem - than to jazz the metre. The other power of modern poetry (which tends to require from us less pure metrical invention, hence decline of metre) is punctuation: after cummings and Dickinson, poetry was definitively for reading from the page, not for listening to from recital, and thus punctuation became a legit part of the toolkit. There's other toys in here, obviously. And 'Barry' is Barry Obama, by the way; somehow that he was called this early on didn't make it out of his backstory, or from Fake Steve, to the frontpages, but is true.
Sex-Bot Villanelle
or
VW5yZXF1aXRlZCBMb3Zl
“Beep boop whistle click click whistle boop beep.â€
A shame I cannot process binary.
So close this sex-bot I desire to keep.
Four more passionate hours pass without sleep.
Her song sung sweetly as a canary,
“Beep boop whistle click click whistle boop beep.â€
Her android eyes peer into mine so deep.
I grab my English-Bot Dictionary.
So close this sex-bot I desire to keep.
Decoding her message: a slope so steep,
Interpreting my little steel fairy.
“Beep boop whistle click click whistle boop beep.â€
My feelings change for this lousy scrap heap,
As translation reveals words so scary.
So close this sex-bot I desire to keep.
Thanks be to God that robots cannot weep.
I run from her love and plans to marry.
“Beep boop whistle click click whistle boop beep.â€
So close this sex-bot I desire to keep?
TSA Haiku
TSA takin’
Ma MacBookPro for why
I can has O2?
No shoes, jacket, belt, watch
Scan me, wand me, expose my
Bits for all to see
Tragicomedy
Harass granny, toddler, vets
Returning from Iraq yeah!
Schneier, Goldberg show
Security theater
Pwn Hawley, Chertoff
Protect Rodina
Homeland Security is
Enemy my home
ZOMG, my reply posted above as an addendum! Thanks to you, O fabulous Moderator, you! I'm touched!
Can you show me on the dolly where the moderator touched you?
Ah, 'twas in and about the cockles of my heart, not to be found on or in any doll, noble Antinous!
The dead man in the afternoon, alone,
Takes careful sips of spiced and pureed brains.
His watch chain is made up of finger bones.
His waistcoat sewn by violently insane,
Though gifted, tailors. Self-made, self-cursed man,
By his own careful labors self-exhumed
With rotten bootstraps clutched in shriveled hands;
Not one to shamble with the common brood.
Relentlessly he built his fortune high
And gnawed through rival throats without a qualm.
His bulbous airships now command the sky,
And boiled infant lotion grease his palms.
Success of such a sort is hollowing,
But he, embalmed, can hardly feel the sting.
My Senator Ted hails from Mass
His agenda has been stalled, could not pass
Because of a pork-minded
Ted from state forty-nine
Who has just been handed, his ass.
takin’ scissors, pens,
sippy cups, water, yogurt
making you safer
I looked up
Opened my eyes
And saw before me
Wonderful people and wonderful things.
But did it matter what they were?
Or only that I saw?
Here is the solution for my crossword puzzle entry (#43).
BB We can has games crossword puzzle solution
Torture Is the New Chic
November 14, 2008 12:14pm
Ignorance’s Victims
Tell me what the fuck you think you know
From whose seed did your ideas grow
How much of what makes up your mind
Did you consciously put there or me in mine
Do we have any fucking idea
The depth of the problem
The extent of the fear
So much shit in our heads
No control of our times
We parrot the lies and walk the lines
Piss in their bottles and give up our guns
Pay for their wars, hurray our side won
So just shut the fuck up
You’re only a victim
Another casualty
Of the fraud in the system
Just lay back
Forget everything you know
You’ve been beaten, raped
Arranged in neat rows
Mentally deceased
Voluntarily disarmed
Ignorance’s victims
Kept safe from harm
"The time has come," the Boingers said,
"To rhyme of many things:
Of makes, and squid,and ceiling cats,
Of Cory's cryptic rings...
And why the sea is full of feet,
And why ~shouldn't~ men have wings?"
"Get out of my head!!" the carpenter said,"I'm struggling with some horribly four-dimensional esoteric joinery to be fitted into a wildly and obstinately non-rectilinear recess, where the walls comprise of a patchwork of loose lime powder and solid granite.
I thought I had my boingboing habit under control..."
page 171, Sammich
http://books.google.com/books?id=SwQF8NFw0EwC&pg=PA171&lpg=PA171&dq=ticking+stick+carpentry&source=web&ots=bbVE3QBODL&sig=5JZ96TnR28DhKRnZRyMbqFsetHY&hl=en&sa=X&oi=book_result&resnum=1&ct=result#PPA171,M1
I think the finalists for this contest should have a tie-breaker melee in a jello-pit, clad only in thongs, capes and goggles. Lime jello. Televised to the web.
Your Virtual Girlfriend
November 15, 2008 10:50am
Beasts Nouveau
Our Modern Age
Our fragile cage
Animals with art
Beasts at heart
Hump and dump
Cheat on chumps
One new condition
Willing submission
Don’t rape me
Please take me
Don’t love me
Just fuck me
Over a chair
Handfuls of hair
Freely tied
Whipped with pride
Hot wax drips
Timeless trips
Take a chance
Sex in a trance
Plenty of time
For candles and wine
Love will wait
Take the bait
LOL! 't is a rokkin night
Without the comfort of a beer.
A tranny's thong, bedewed, hindsight
entails the bend of ears,
Sit in virtual theatre to see
A play of steam and gears,
While the band was kickin fitfully
The the '80's/big-hair/ christian/ rap/metal/prog/electronic/rock of the spheres.
Trolls, in the form of Gawd on high,
Mttr nd mmble lw,
And hthr and ththr fly;
sock puppets they, who spew and foam
At behest of vast conspiricies
That shoot the green-screen 'shoppe like pro,
Pooping from out their keyboard fing's
Takuan's Visible Woe.
That lowbrow drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its artists Coop and Shag and Schorr
At the Roc La Rue or trendy spot,
Through a canvas that ne'er endeth in
A cranium- melting rot;
And a flickr of Madness, and intarwebs of Sin,
And Goatse the soul of the plot.
But spy amongst the digit rout
A lurching shape intrude:
An undead thing that dryly shouts:
"It'sss ay ssseereeessz uvv tooobzz!"
It writhes—it writhes!—with birthing pangs
The memes become its FUD,
And licking fingers quivering from
Gelatinous brains it stewde.
FTW—FTW are the Geektards—FTW all!
And o'er each robotic form
Moderation, a disemvowelling fist,
like a watch with spring that hath sproing,
With Xeni Mark Cory and all whom they flog ,
Where Authors and Artists and and Thinkers conjoin
That the fan-fic is the tragedy, "Blog,"
Its underwear-pervert hero, the Conqueror Boing.
sung to the tune of edgar alan poe's " the conqueror worm"
ahhhh, we CAN haz games!
Copy as you like
Don't charge even a penny
Tell them I wrote it
Beasts Nouveau Revisited
Our Modern Age, animals with art
Our fragile cage, beasts at heart
Cheat on chumps, one new condition
Hump and dump, willing submission
Don’t rape me, don’t love me
Please take me, just fuck me
Over a chair, freely tied
Handfuls of hair, whipped with pride
Hot wax drips, take a chance
Timeless trips, sex in a trance
Plenty of time, love will wait
Candles and wine, take the Bait
Foetus,
I'm just reading some of these for the first time and as I much as I can enjoy them while one handedly fending off a toddler doing cannonballs on my chest, they are awesp,e/
like some infective virus of creativity
WOLFIESMA, thanks, your compliment is much appreciated!
Foetus,
Just one question. Am I a sage or fool? Fool, definitely.
The amount of work that went to so many of these poems is pretty astounding. The Wesley Willis/Obama tribute is the funniest damn thing I've every heard. My brother made me listen to WW. I will have to turn him on to BB.
So great job everybody. If you are like me, you check these boards incessantly, especially when you've put something out there, curious for the response.
Thank you brave commentators all for throwing your gems to the silent masses.
#191:
And thanks to those silent who came to this thread
To post all their wonderful poems to be read
This is late, Dead Kennedy's post:
Punk was Guthrie's ol' guitar writ large
we'd kill the fascists, and lead the charge
a rally for the suburban reject
a grail for teenagers abject
Parents and congressmen became
open to study, scrutiny and shame
Punk killed the father like Oedipus
but then grew old like the rest of us
Now the pop killer has been spent
It commodifies it's own dissent
Wow. You people rock.
MDHatter, this place rocks!
Well written Anthony; Iggy Pop is still kicking ass at 61, and probably in better shape than he was at 25; Lee Ving still wants to start a war at 58; Captain Sensible is damned forever at 54; Jello, at 50, ain't dead yet, though a bit jiggly; Henry Rollins is still a mouthy youngster at 47.
We've read these wonderful, wordy webs
With joy, delight and amazement
Now that the excitement gently ebbs
We wait, patiently, for the judgment
Ahem: Upon the "magical" infomercial, employing alliterative verse and suitably archaic diction to impart an antiquated feel:
Such magically maximized mammary glands
What man could malign such matriarchy?
'twould marshall his mast stiff as a marrowbone
And maneuvre him to malignant materialism
Thanks, Foetus- It can be sung to any MDC melody.
Steve Albini's still around. And the Dischord fellas are still around and still activists. It's good to know.
after the spoils are awarded, the poetry thread should stand as such.
The deadline for entries in this game is midnight tonight, Pacific Standard Time.
I have, at great trouble and expense, persuaded the editorial head of the science fiction line at the world's largest English-language SF publishing house to help judge the competition.
Woo-Hoo! (there was a Polymeme article on Tor today)
Inspired authors (lucky lads) attest
That when in them the gentle muses move
It feels a bit like childbirth, and so I
Attempt via analogy, to prove
That when you on a whim pick up the pen
And having cursed in print your writer's block,
Recurse and curse recursion, it's a bit
Like playing with your (Editor: what schlock!)
Both acts are pleasant, private, and begin
With hand on tool, till at some length they loose
A substance on a sheet . You have preserved
The seepage of your pen, and so I muse:
Perhaps somewhere, you keep the other's issue.
I sneeze to think! But must decline your tissue.
'bout a half hour to git them pomes in!
#202. Ewww. And lol. And ewwwwww.
You know who is missing on this thread? Insect Hooves.
This was a tough call!
I'm sorry I don't have two Zunes, and so can't give a second prize to the poem that was an obvious popular favorite. In defense of my decision, I can only point out that while LEE is one syllable, LED is three. I fully expect that in future we'll see Cloudform win some other poetry competition.
(Picks up envelope)
And the winner is ...
SpatulaLilacs @41, "Sestina of a Reluctant Copyfighter." Which, O my word, is a rigidly formal sestina that maintains both natural language and perfect iambic pentameter, while developing a coherent argument about copyright issues.
Now, there's something you don't see every day.
It really was very, very close, and it didn't come down to just those two poems.
There'll be a separate entry to follow, with extensive commendations, a top ten list, and other good things.
Thank you, all of you!
Kermit Yaayyyyyyy! (with rubbery arm waving)
suggestion for next game: making up personal ads for each other.
Congratulations SpatulaLilacs! I don't think I read that one properly the first time through. On detailed reading, I am in awe.
Second that Yaayyyyyyy! to SpatulaLilacs, take a lap.
P.S. Does this mean there won't be a televised tie-breaker mêlée of finalists clad only in thongs, capes and goggles in the lime jello-pit of fate? We've already sent out the e-vites and bought the popcorn and beer.
--applause--
Congratulations Spatulalilacs, well won!
Perhaps there will be some kind of Offworld coronation ceremony, if not an actual wrestling event.
There will be a substantial main-sequence entry about it, but not until Monday, when everyone's watching.
I'd like to save the "making up personal ads for each other" for later, when more people have gotten to know each other better. If we did it now, it would seem in-groupish.
I'm tempted to run a quick competition for Best Unicorn Chaser, and thereby accumulate a stash of them -- I'm always running short. We could credit the donor when the chaser got used.
I liked Shutz's suggestions about six-word and fifty-word stories, and Cloudform's suggestion that 130 characters is a good length.
Fake Boing Boing stories would be fun. So would fake Boing Boing headlines (there's the short fast version again). I think I'd want entrants to declare which Boinger or guest blogger supposedly wrote the supposed story, so we can judge whether the entry is truly indistinguishable from the real thing.
I think we'll leave games requiring pre-registration until that happy day when we've thoroughly debugged the real registration process.
While a contest that asked entrants to describe a post-singularity Boing Boing is a very original idea, I'm going to stand on my authority as a longtime science fiction editor and say that if you locked Vernor Vinge, Bill Gibson, Bruce Sterling, Charlie Stross, Ken MacLeod, and Hunter S. Thompson's briefcase into a large hotel suite together, and set them that same challenge as a condition of their being allowed to leave, they still wouldn't be able to come up with an answer. One of the defining characteristics of the Transcend is that it's incomprehensible.
Finally, I'm opposed to having forum wars because I couldn't guarantee the good behavior of everyone who turned up in another forum and claimed to be part of a Boing Boing raiding party.
Good ideas, though.
The best games are simple structures that generate complex behaviors. If we were having this conversation in person, I would now offer to teach you guys to play Mafia and Thing as they're played at SF writing workshops. The rules are very simple, the roles are few, the games are never the same twice, and they're never boring.
Mafia eh?... I like the sound of that.
The slight problem - for me as yet another of the 'first time posters, long term lurkers', with I hope a decent poem - is wanting to play, but not wanting to have be 'in' to have fun. In addition to a good simple gameplay/complex game ratio, I encourage also a good newcomer/good experience ratio.
Anyway, I also think a regular poetry competition is a good idea. But to make it more 'fair', I feel a form should be set and a topic, and other conditions. That way it's a level playing field. I myself don't think a sestina is a nice form, but if its set, so be it.
Like eight-line stanzas in iambic tetrameter, ABACBABC, where A and B are monosyllabic and C is trisyllabic?
Personally, I really like #80, "Web Zen." Nice unification of form & substance. And use of the word "disemvoweling."
Ms. Hayden, thank you so, so much. :)
Now i just have to get the Zune to work on my mac...
Spatula Lilacs, "Web Zen" is in the top ten, and was a hot contender. Now what you need to do is click on the eyeball and send me your name and your mailing address. Oh, and do you want me to use your real name in the main post?
JManooch, one of the joys of this game has been the first-time posters joining in.
I dislike setting forms, because I never expect things like crossword puzzles, and then I get them anyway.
Neurotic lament: The main entry's been up for ... minutes! ... and no one's commented. They must not like it.
Mr. Orion's haiku collection continues to grow on me. It should have placed higher.