Once upon a midnight dreary, while I grinded, buzzed and bleary, On an NL50 table as I'd often done before, Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow From my cash surcease of sorrow in the bosom of a whore - With the loose and lusty lady whom her patrons call Lenore - In my heart forevermore.
Thus I sat heads up, unshaven, with a player named 'The Raven.' He existed for aggression, treating poker like it's war; With his beady gaze appraising, he was raising, always raising Any two! It was amazing, such opponents I adore: Wait for cards to loot the lagtard, massive profits lie in store! Soon that stack is his no more.
Then my hand Fortuna graces with a pair of scarlet aces, And I flat. The Raven raises. I delay, my spirits soar. Call. The flop comes single-suited, and he shoves. It's undisputed: He is begging to be looted, he's a spewer to the core! Now he has it, something tells me. Intuition I ignore, And I make the call once more.
"Bing blang blaow," the Raven uttered. "What the bloody f*ck?" I sputtered, And I numbly watched the table where the Raven made his score With a deuce and seven suited; flopped the flush, and I was looted. What a cooler! Nerves uprooted, anger seeped through every pore. Checked my roll, which was constructed through the nanos' endless chore: Eighty cents, and nothing more.
"Raven in the house!" he'd spoken and, "This fifty is a token Of my mammoth skill at poker. You'd have spent it at the store For your groceries, I'm guessing. Well, too bad, is that distressing? Soon I'll cash this verdant blessing; ere I place it in my drawer, I will rub it on my titties, as I've done in days of yore. Nothing else could please me more."
Such a rage his words did trigger, and I shouted, "F*ggot n*gger! Shut your hole, o fishy offal that has drifted to the shore! Retard donk, you smell like midden! Hope your mom's with cancer ridden! And the words that you have written slight legitimacy bore; You will promptly lose that fifty, knowing naught of Sklansky's lore, Lose that bill and many more."
But the Raven cawed his ditty, "Docs on file and cash on titty! You're pathetic; I feel pity as I never have before: Sing of your denied nutrition and express your true contrition, With an adequate submission, I might possibly restore Your pecuniary status. Bring your sorrows to the fore, Only that, and nothing more."
Lacking money, feeling hollowed, my apology had followed, "Bing blang blaow" from lips departing as a fetid poisoned spore, "Of my cash I have no traces for Lenore's diseased embraces, Nor to stuff our pudgy faces with the burgers we adore! I am sorry for my language, ship some back, sir, I implore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
With my dollars he departed. I stood up then, broken-hearted, Threw my mouse and punched my laptop and collapsed upon the floor, And my eyes have all the seeming of Phil Hellmuth's when he's steaming, And my awful, tilted screaming through my mouth will always pour; And my roll from the vexation that has pierced me to the core Shall be lifted - nevermore.
I've been a mess the last few days, rushing to finish my entry for Blizzard's writing contest. (Submitted just now. Wish me luck if you're so kind). Last night, I decided to have a burger before my all-night writing session. Diarrhea followed shortly after. Thus inspired, I bastardized the Russian version of Mephistopheles' Golden Calf aria from Gounod's "Faust." Best sung aloud to the original melody.
Here is the original:
My version (mildly NSFW toward the end):
На земле весь род людской Ест лишь гамбургеры с содой. Фрукты, овощи, и воду? Не под аркой золотой!
В умилении сердечном Прославляя сей обед, Все они плюют на вред, Повторяя бесконечно: Дайте сахар и крахмал! Дайте сахар и крахмал!
Сатана там правит бал, Там правит бал! Сатана там правит бал, Там правит бал!
Этот идол золотой Все диеты презирает, Населенье насыщает! Для обжоры он святой.
Но в конце концов зараза Попадает в жир мясной, И людской понос рекой Льётся в недры унитаза! Извергают жидкий кал! Извергают жидкий кал!
Сатана там правит бал, Там правит бал! Сатана там правит бал, Там правит бал!
Repost from the contest that took place a couple of months ago.
The Suffering of Atlas
He's supporting the firmament, limbs locked in place, Sweat and snowmelt eroding the remnants of grace. But the burden is only a part of his curse, And the other is rather the worse.
Not as Tantalus, parched to the loss of his speech, Not as Sisyphus, stymied with summit in reach, No, a memory's ember in vengeance enjoins A vestigial lust in his loins.
Decades flow into centuries, heavens still press. Lacking stimuli, even the Titans regress. In his lonesome torment, he no longer recalls Aught but pain and cerulean balls.
(He'd be promptly jerked off by Invisible Hand Had he lived in the heyday of Rand).
A few nights ago, I ran into an incredibly filthy Russian poem from the 1830s. It can be read in full here. Here is a quick and dirty translation of Part III, minus a couple of stanzas that I couldn't quite work out. Enjoy!
Our Luke, since he had been much younger, (And he had lived two score thus far) Endured in drunkenness and hunger In meager quarters near a bar.
On top of hardship and privation, He suffered from another wrong: His manhood was an aberration At fully fourteen inches long.
No youthful maid with lips of scarlet, No harridan nor lusty harlot Would voluntarily put out Once she observed that monstrous spout.
So knowing not of love's elation, He dwelt in solitude malign, Upon his penis poured damnation And drowned his misery in wine.
But please permit a brief digression So that I may herein include A simple, cursory impression Of Luke's distinguished, ancient brood.
His line was wealthy and patrician, Owned farmland, peasants by the throngs, And as a fortunate addition, Especially prodigious dongs.
As generations were progressing, That latter magnitude was passed As though it were a father's blessing, A true familial bequest.
One of his clan, we may remember, Served Ivan, terrible and fierce, And lifting weights upon his member, He entertained the tsar to tears.
In Ivan's service ever fervent, One time he pulled his pants ajar And with his sausage smote two servants Who managed to displease the tsar.
Another proved a deal less callous In serving Peter, one may glean: In midst of battle, with his phallus He strove to keep the cannons clean.
Although a moron's reputation His antecedents always bore, Their crotches served as compensation; No other men could brag of more.
But though their properties were many, Luke's grandpa, wasteful and uncouth, Had quickly squandered every penny And Luke knew poverty from youth.
Our Luke wasn't known for being lucky, And it could truthfully be said: Fate granted him the means for fucking And not a fuck on top of that.
The gravitas of greats is often leased Like beer, in portions bottled by the meter Or canned in rime, whichever one prefers.
What do we gain by adhering to form? Is it an intimate, militant bugle Stirring a longing for glories long gone?
Or is it nothing but a flimsy screen, HFCS dissolved in Ganges water To hide bilharzia and acrid ash?
No certain rule is etched in prose Regarding this most weighty matter, But for the moment, I suppose It's almost certainly the latter. I know too well: a man is prone To seek the known, the comfort zone.
Inspired by Goya's "Saturno" (I prefer the Greek names) and some sake.
Cronus
I sit contented, mighty, clever. My golden age will last forever! Then Rhea breaks the news: I’m Daddy. Dreams begin to smolder. I see my future: bitter, balder, And selling ladies’ shoes.
Like saprophytes in springtime showers, They grow! They’ll soon usurp! My powers Will be of no avail. One tool remains at my disposal: A swift, anachronous proposal (Except without the sale).
I quaff the blood and suck the marrow. The hollowed bones shall have no barrow But dogs or swine or brine. I tell myself: Remember, Cronus, In married life, the final onus For birth control is thine.
God Grant - Yevgeny Yevtushenko, translated by yours truly
God grant the blind their sight anew, Restore the hunchbacks from affliction, With godliness – a bit – imbue, Without the bit of crucifixion.
God keep us from the scepter’s heft, From heroism by falsehood driven, And grant us wealth – without the theft, If such could possibly be given.
God grant long lives – a good five score, Emerging in the end uneaten, Be not a hangman, victim, nor A beggar nor a haughty cretin.
God grant few wounds at human hands When battle supersedes endeavor. God grant a multitude of lands Without losing ours, however.
God grant you shall not find yourself By your own country spurned and booted. God grant that should you lose your wealth, Your spouse’s love stays undiluted.
God, silence those who utter lies, Thine voice produced through children’s bellows. God grant we see the living Christ, In woman’s guise if not a fellow’s.
Unburdened by the cross we stride, But all pathetic, stooped and brittle. Don’t let our shreds of faith subside – God, grant us God, if just a little!
God, grant us all that you begat, To all at once, divine Creator! God, grant us all, but only that Which will not bring us shame much later.
This was my first attempt at original poetry in English, written in early '07 while procrastinating on a Beowulf analysis paper.
At Heorot did Hrothgar-king A massive drinking-hall proclaim, Where mead in golden rivers ran From tankards numberless to man Through Shielding warriors of fame.
But Grendel, monster of the lake, Foul spawn of Cain, by Heaven cursed, Resenting happiness in booze, Ecstatic prayers, lambent hues, With Shielding lifeblood slaked his thirst.
Across the sea came Beowulf, A Geat thane of some renown. (Twelve winters happened first to pass) When once-proud Hrothgar kissed his ass, Wulf said, “I shall not let you down.”
Upon foul Grendel’s next return, They battled, meaning grievous harm: But Beowulf, God-bless’d and good, Refused to turn to monster food, And severed Grendel’s wicked arm.
The Shield-Danes’ king then wined and dined The hero from across the seas, And lavished praise with regal voice: Obsequious, he did rejoice For lack of further obsequies.
A bard then sang of combat past, Of blighted treachery and hate – Of monstrous men ; it was so strong, I heard italics in the song. Then Grendel’s mother showed, irate.
“Blood hath bought blood and body parts,” She might have Shakespeare paraphrased, But this had happened long before. She took Aeschere’s head, full of lore, And Grendel's arm, amidst drunk daze.
The Geat boasted once again To seek revenge beneath the lake. And Unferth, by his deeds assured, Lent Beowulf his runic sword. ‘Twas mighty Hrunting, not a fake!
In halls of vileness Beo fought. Unarmed, she held the upper hand Against the Geat’s sword and board, But on his side then stood our Lord, And she was vanquished from the land.
Our hero crossed the sea again, Returning home with wealth and fame, But Danes were soon by foes beset - Betrayers, human ones at that - And Heorot succumbed to flame.
In Geatland, two kings then fell, And Beo rose to claim the throne, He was among the best of kings, Imposing, generous with rings. In war, his land was left alone.
A dragon woke five decades hence: Envenom’d snake with flaming breath That yearned for vengeance on a thief And ravaged land in Beo’s fief, Its halitosis bearing death.
‘Wulf couldn’t resist a monster’s lure In youth nor geriatric, now. He called the fighters of that day: “Come, whippersnappers, let us play!” To slay the beast they took a vow.
But once the time for combat came, All of his thanes but one had fled. Proud Wiglaf gave him full support, The dragon’s might had come up short, And now the toothy one lay dead.
The Lord wasn’t backing either side, And Beowulf was due to croak. The man was glad to keep his word; Grinned as he saw the dragon’s hoard; To Wiglaf said: “You’re king now, bloke.”
And Wiglaf spoke to Geats: “Kin, Though we lack not in gold nor food, From foes we can’t defend our land, There is much death and woe at hand: Our fighters’ guts are saffron-hued.”
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