"Official" Frischmas Poetry Slam Thread
A day late and a dollar short, but yesterday was a doozie!
If you have a poem, song or other creative writing effort, post it in the comments. Then vote for your favorite via email (sinsblog at softhome dot net). The highest vote getters will be promoted to the front page.
Good luck and start writing!
Update: How about we set a deadline for midnight tonight (you jean time of course) and voting via email ends 6PM tomorrow. I will make a new post so the winners get top billing for a while.
BTW: Should consider Dr. Deb's recent poem an entry?
posted by Sinner @ 4:38 AM
24 comments
24 Comments:
I claim no talent, but in the spirit of the day:
A Frischmas Medley
We wish you a merry frischmas
We wish you a merry frischmas
We wish you a merry frischmas
With beaucoup de crayzee.
Much frothing she spews
On foe and on friend,
Much whatting and wailing
On the state that she's in.
***
Stalker Deb,
Stalker Deb,
Internet's a bitch!
Insult a host,
Delete a post,
Plan how to get riiiiich.
Your family must cringe
And ex-co-workers fret
When you come unhinged
On the Internet.
Slashing through the blogs.
Thrashing left and right.
Wave your PhD.
At everyone in sight. Oh!
Stalker Deb,
Stalker Deb,
Vodka is your vice.
Trash your career.
And show your rear.
Ignore good advice.
I claim no talent, but in the spirit of the day:
Blizzardlane - Maybe I'm an old-fashioned guy, but there's a lot to be said for simply getting into the Frischmas spirit.
Plus, you made me chuckle over morning coffee, which is no mean accomplishment. (Since I'm generally impervious to anything short of a sledgehammer blow in the early a.m. Or, um, nevermind...)
[Lousy impersonation of Lloyd Bridges]
Looks like I picked the wrong day to be busy.
[/Lousy impersonation of Lloyd Bridges]
Nonetheless, I hope to have a modest effort to post much later today.
Sinner - Is there a "contest deadline"?
blizzardlane:
See, that's simple, with a good beat and you can dance to it. I think your talent is just fine.
Here we are in Buckhead, meeting to decide the Fate of the Company, and I'm humming jingle bells. Life is good.
Deb has joined the Frischmas Poetry Slam!
a blogger's apology
Alas! I am only a blogger,
I don't know the meaning of tact;
I got my butt kicked back in July
Dieu said “You must take up your act!”
I heckled Ron Wyden with pleasure,
On everyone else I just spat.
I spar with folks that I don’t treasure
I've got to do better than that.
-----
[transation for the reality unimpaired]
Alas! You have seen my true colors.
Oh, yay! Everytime she goes into the 'I have to clean up my act' spiel, she launches into a new cycle of maximum teh crayzee®.
Go, debee! Go debee! Getchur freak on! GoooooooOOOOOO, debee! (everyone shake your DebCon1 red pom-poms).
Oh, sorry, my bad. Posted a comment to the poetry-slam.
Uhm,
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I have no poetic talent
Unlike all of you.
My apologies to anyone who reads this:
Afternoon Deb-lite
Gonna find my blogger
Gonna post alright
Gonna grab some Afternoon Deb-lite
My motto's always been: I'll write!
I'll write!
I'm Batfrisch CrayZee on a Thursday night
When I can't think clearly in the light of day
And Teh Vodka's keeps a calling me anyway
Thinkin' of my hurts works up an appetite
Lookin' forward to a little Afternoon Deb-lite
Rubbin'words and pix together makes the sparks ignite
And the thought of slammin' joos is getting so exciting
Foul language and spite
Afternoon Deb-lite
Afternoon Deb-lite
Afternoon Deb-lite
Aw! I get a little busy and the poetry slam starts without me! No time right now, but let me post my variation of Dylan Thomas here.
Warriors of word do yawp at battle fall;
Though wise thoughts pierce their heart of what felt right,
Because their pulse beat on word warriors all
Do not stop, rage on, on to that good fight.
Good thoughts, and arch wry wit, seeking do bite
The heel and then gain Colbert's cattle call,
Yet lacking these, fly from the shining light.
Wild thoughts and poor spelling are but mind's blight,
Old mates, they do not impress, you, with gall,
Do not stop, rage on, on to that good fight.
Grave thoughts on death, or writing books that might,
Put path to career, back to hallowed hall,
Yet lacking these, fly from the shining light.
And you, cray zee lay dee, the state did cite
Crimes against them, because you, not at all,
Did not stop, raged on, on to that good fight.
And lacking these, flew from the shining light.
I was in a little serious mood last night, so teh funny® had a hard time flowing. Actually, it's hard for me to write funny poetry than [ick] more serious stuff. The sing-song stuff has been drilled out of me. More teh funny® later.
I saw the best minds of my generation spoiled by Muppets, fuzzy felt hipsters all naked,
puppeteered through sesame streets at dawn looking for the number six,
cloth-headed youngsters yearning for the pungent slovenly collection of the sneery misanthrope in the trashcan to the right,
who innocence and lintballs and ping-pong-eyed and wired sat up snickering in the supercilious brightness of primary-color sets lounging across the tops of boxes contemplating spaz,
who bared their butts to Henson under the felt and saw Snuffleupagan creatures sauntering on public broadcasting sets illuminated,
who passed through elementaries with animated eyes entertaining Maine and Klieg-light comedy among the teachers of yore,
who were extolled on the airwaves for lazy & highlighting unseen codes to the windows of the world,
who showered in unshaven baths in underwear, washing their ducky in water and listening to the murmuring of Bert through the wall,
Who got famous in their lilypads warbling through lyrics with a belt of showtunes on PBS,
who ate cookies in shapes of L's or drank milk in Friendship Alley, left, or dry-cleaned their torsos after every show,
....ah, heck with it. I've got a loverly bunch of coconuts!
The Frischmas Coming
Burning and churning in the Oregon woods
The Frischster cannot bear the pressure;
The mind falls apart; the lefty cannot hold;
Pure Crayzee is loosed upon the Net
The froth-flecked tide is loosed, and everywhere
Any peace and quiet are drowned;
The apologies lack all conviction, while the poems
Are full of jibbering insanity.
Surely some intervention is at hand;
Surely the man in green car is at hand.
The Man in Green Car! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image of Spirits on Thursday
Troubles my sight: somewhere in forests of the Northwest
A shape with dog's body and the head of a sock monkey,
A gaze blank and witless as the moon
Is moving toward the keyboard, while all about it
Reel shadows of the stuffed animals.
Teh Crayzee drops again; but now I know
That six days of relative quiet
Were vexed to posting by some VBSers,
And what hateful screed, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards You-Jean to be born?
-----
*My apologies to William Butler Yeats.
I know, Ginsberg gets so dang long, doesn't he? But sulla, you get my vote so far.
the sneery misanthrope in the trashcan to the right,
Love it.
I can't command the muse right now (I lose enough work time as it is, slumming around DHD), so I will contribute tonight or tomorrow.
Any word on a competition deadline?
Joe and Sulla - Crikey, how am I supposed to compete with you guys?
Everything I've come up with thus far seems to contain rhymes with "Nantucket".
[Grumble]
Back to my personal salt mine where, to paraphrase Cole Porter, I'm enjoying the fresh salt air.
Not.
Yeeeah, boooyeee...West Side SoCal poets in da hizoooouse...
Promenade shout out to my Pasadena peep --
*cough*
sorry. Had a Dogg in my throat.
C'n I get a whu-whuuut?
Fo' shizzle no teh fizzle® on the hizzle-tip!
Westsi-ide!
Okay, I'm done.
Here's a half-assed, non-competition-worthy attempt which just came to me. (Ironically, one of the projects I'm frantically working on right now is a 3-song Xmas CD with some of my old bandmates which we're doing just for fun.)
Have yourself a scary little Frischmas
Let teh crazy flow
Boot your Dell
And then uncork a nice bordeaux
Have yourself a scary little Frischmas,
Post teh crazy verse.
From now on your troubles
Will be getting worse
There you blog up in Orrey Gun
Hope you're having fun, you loon
Threaten those whom you're snarking at
And keep barking at the moon.
Through the years, you've burned all of your bridges
And it's all YOUR fault
Tenure track positions you've blown; oy gevalt!
By threat'ning 2-year-olds with sexual assault.
Hey Fatwa,
That's pretty good! Keeping with the Frischmas theme around here, that's for sure.
nicely done, fatwa!
Joe & Sulla -
As always, thanks for the kind words. But you two are consistently the folks to beat when it comes to poetry parodies around here.
[Sighs with burdensome, overwhelming sorrow]
I've resigned myself to being the Solieri of DHD.
"Garçon...another absinthe!"
[Sigh]
I do like blizzardlane's adaption of The Second Coming. That's hard, and takes discipline. Ah, one of my faves, good going!
Thanks, joe! Yates doesn't really lend himself to Teh Funnay but I love that poem and it was easier to play with than Ozymandias (which I was trying to spin into Lesbian the Ass!)
Jeez there are some really well-read people hanging out here at Sinner's Place!
I'm so impressed with all of you.
Great, great job one and all!
Before any of all y'all go voting, check out the comments in the post following this, because there's some Dylan Thomas and Joyce Kilmer -esque work there.
blizzardlane,
Just caught your Slouching toward Eugene poem. Excellent!
Entry period closed
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