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May 03 2012
“ Drink Some Fucking Tea— Drink Some Fucking Tea - Nele - Avatar: The Last Airbender, Go the Fuck to Sleep [Archive of Our Own]The scary Fire Lord is far away in his volcano
And Azula is nowhere to be seen.
You’re cozy and safe on your ship, Prince Zuko.
Please drink some fucking tea.The engines are quietly chugging
As we sail through the icy southern sea.
I’ll teach you one very last kata if you swear
You’ll drink some fucking tea.The Avatar has soared over the horizon
And we’re lucky our ship didn’t sink.
I know you want your honor. You told me. Stop shouting.
Sit the fuck down, my nephew, and drink.The wind barely covers Zhao’s howls of fury.
Such a lovely sound, don’t you agree?
You won an Agni Kai, can’t you be happy for two seconds?
Coal and ashes, what the fuck? Drink some tea.You deserve to be wet and miserable.
Invading Kyoshi Island was a horrible idea.
Hell no, you can’t have the fucking Avatar.
You know what you can have? Some tea.I told you a storm was coming.
Why must you always rush? Can’t you think?
A hot crimson rage fills my heart, nephew.
For real, cut the fucking crap and drink.You’ve been out all night bothering Zhao
And still you don’t sleep a wink.
How is it you can sneak into Pohuai stronghold
But you can’t stop pacing long enough to have one fucking drink?Enlighten me, Prince Zuko, what kind of blistering idiot
Sends a shirshu into a nunnery?
Enough with this nonsense. You’re out of control.
I’ve got two words for you, brat: fucking tea.Lieutenant Jee sings a stirring love song
And the sparrow-gulls chirp and tweet.
Come to fucking music night, how often must I ask you?
Quit your moping. Play the tsungi horn. Drink some tea.Flames leap high from the wreckage of our ship
As I pull you from the debris.
My life is a failure, I’m a shitty-ass uncle.
Stop almost dying on me, please, drink some tea.Zhao’s fleet unleashes doom and destruction
While I stand here and openly weep.
Sure, fine, whatever, go swim under the North Pole.
Who the fuck cares? You’ll never drink your tea.We’re on a raft in a tealess ocean
But at least you’re here in one piece.
You can get back at the waterbender next time, Zuko.
Let’s first find some land and some tea.I’m poisoned and starving because you listened to Azula.
At least give me a name that doesn’t stink.
I might slip some white jade into your tea, Junior,
But of course you just won’t fucking drink.Now I’ve got you cornered. A job in a teashop!
Tea as far as the eye can see.
Oh shit. The bison’s here. You’ve gotta be kidding.
Come on, drink some more fucking tea.THE END
”
Go the Fuck to Sleep, Avatar Style.
Iroh ftw.
April 14 2012
(TS Eliot's the wasteland, rewritten in LOLCatese.)
March 24 2012
“ She squats, bare feet— The Sioux Falls Area Literacy Council: A poor woman learns to write, by Margaret Atwood
splayed out, not
graceful; skirt tucked around ankles.
Her face is lined and cracked.
She looks old,
older than anything.
She's probably thirty.
Her hands also are lined and cracked
and awkward. Her hair concealed.
She prints with a stick, laboriously
in the wet grey dirt,
frowning with anxiety.
Great big letters.
There. It's finished.
Her first word so far.
She never thought she could do this,
Not her.
This was for others,
She looks up, smiles
as if apologizing,
but she's not. Not this time. She did it right.
What does the mud say?
Her name. We can't read it.
But we can guess. Look at her face:
Joyful Flower? A Radiant One? Sun On Water? ”
brightbyte
March 19 2012
the past is an empty cafe terrace | Cywydd y cedor (The female genitals)
Gwerful Mechain (ca. 1460/3-1500). Female Welsh poet; a celebratory poem about the female body, perhaps written as a counterpart to well-known medieval Welsh poems about the penis.
Every foolish drunken poet,
boorish vanity without ceasing
(never may I warrant it,
I of great noble stock),
has always declaimed fruitless praise
in song of the girls of the lands
all day long, certain gift,
most incompletely, by God the Father:
praising the hair, gown of fine love,
and every such living girl,
and lower down praising merrily
the brows above the eyes;
praising also, lovely shape,
the smoothness of the soft breasts,
and the beauty’s arms, bright drape,
she deserved honour, and the girl’s hands.
Then with his finest wizardry
before night he did sing, he pays homage to God’s greatness,
fruitless eulogy with his tongue:
leaving the middle without praise and the place where
children are conceived,
and the warm quim, clear excellence,
tender and fat, bright fervent broken circle,
where I loved, in perfect health,
the quim below the smock.
You are a body of boundless strength,
a faultless court of fat’s plumage.
I declare, the quim is fair,
circle of broad-edged lips,
it is a valley longer than spoon or a hand,
a ditch to hold a penis two hands long;
cunt there by the swelling arse,
song’s table with its double in red.
And the bright saints, men of the church,
when they get the chance, perfect gift,
don’t fail, highest blessing,
by St. Beuno, to give it a good feel.
For this reason, thorough rebuke,
all you proud poets,
let songs to the quim circulate
without fail to gain reward.
Sultan of an ode, it is silk,
little seam, curtain on a fine bright cunt,
flaps in a place of greeting,
the sour grove, it is full of love,
very proud forest, faultless gift,
tender frieze, fur of a fine pair of testicles,
a girl’s thick grove, circle of precious greeting,
lovely bush, God save it.
March 17 2012
March 11 2012
December 23 2011
December 08 2011
violets are blue
if you hate rhyming
try a haiku
December 05 2011
“— runpunkrun: found poemA little SMS poem, courtesy of my mom. Sent in three consecutive texts:
Can you get cat food
Can you get cat food
[Dad] is getting cat food
It's all about the urgency created by the repetition of the first line, and the abrupt reversal in the last. There's something kind of existential about it, almost zen. Can you ever really get cat food? ”
November 17 2011
Flying Crooked - Robert Graves
The butterfly, a cabbage-white,
(His honest idiocy of flight)
Will never now, it is too late,
Master the art of flying straight,
Yet has - who knows so well as I? -
A just sense of how not to fly:
He lurches here and here by guess
And God and hope and hopelessness.
Even the acrobatic swift
Has not his flying-crooked gift.
brightbyte
November 07 2011
I'm holding out for a human till the end of the night
Just don't assume everyone you meet is a herosexual, kthxbye.
And they've gotta be nice, and they've gotta be weird, and they've gotta know how to spell right.
August 12 2011
“ What happens to a dream deferred?— Where is my Jet-Pack?, Langston Hughes: still relevant
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore -
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over -
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
- Langston Hughes, 1951 ”
July 31 2011
“— “Is/Not” by Margaret AtwoodLove is not a profession
genteel or otherwisesex is not dentistry
the slick filling of aches and cavitiesyou are not my doctor
you are not my cure,nobody has that
power, you are merely a fellow/travellerGive up this medical concern,
buttoned, attentive,permit yourself anger
and permit me minewhich needs neither
your approval nor your suprisewhich does not need to be made legal
which is not against a diseasebut against you,
which does not need to be understoodor washed or cauterized,
which needs insteadto be said and said.
”
Permit me the present tense.
[ascending peculiarity]
July 26 2011
“ I wasn’t lonely.— Charles Bukowski - Where was I
I experienced no self-pity.
I was just caught up in a
life in which
I could find no
meaning. ”
wieczyslaw via brightbyteJuly 22 2011
“ NOW IS WINTER OF OUR DISCONTENT WITH SYSTEMS OF PRIVILEGE AND OPPRESSION MADE GLORIOUS SUMMER BY ANTI-HEGEMONIC SMASH! ”— feministhulk
July 20 2011
“— Margaret Atwood, “A Sad Child”You’re sad because you’re sad.
It’s psychic. It’s the age. It’s chemical.
Go see a shrink or take a pill,
or hug your sadness like an eyeless doll
you need to sleep.Well, all children are sad
but some get over it.
Count your blessings. Better than that,
buy a hat. Buy a coat or pet.
Take up dancing to forget.Forget what?
Your sadness, your shadow,
whatever it was that was done to you
the day of the lawn party
when you came inside flushed with the sun,
your mouth sulky with sugar,
in your new dress with the ribbon
and the ice-cream smear,
and said to yourself in the bathroom,
I am not the favorite child.My darling, when it comes
right down to it
and the light fails and the fog rolls in
and you’re trapped in your overturned body
under a blanket or burning car,and the red flame is seeping out of you
”
and igniting the tarmac beside your head
or else the floor, or else the pillow,
none of us is;
or else we all are.
via
May 19 2011
“— sourceOral Sex...An Ode To Love
Penis breath, a lover's dread
”
Is what you get when you give head
Unpleasant as it tends to be
Be grateful that he doesn't pee
It's times like this, you wonder why
you bothered reaching for his fly
But it's too late, can't be a tease
Accept the facts, get on your knees
You know you've got a job to do
So open wide and shove it through
Lick the tip then take it all
Don't drag your teeth or he might bawl
Slide up and down, use your tongue
And feel the precum start to run
So when the fuck's he gonna cum
Just, when you can't take anymore
You hear your lover's mighty roar
And when he hits that real high note
You feel it oozing down your throat
Salty, fishy, sticky, stuff
Okay, already that's enough
Let's switch you say, before you gag
And what revenge, you're on the rag.
some oral sex jokes just aren't very tasteful.
March 18 2011
THE .DOC FILE OF J ALFRED PRUFROCK
with deepest apologies to T.S. Eliot
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a laptop, put in sleep mode on a table
Let us go through certain half-deserted streets
The blinking-light retreats
Of restless nights in free-wifi cafes
And public libraries with internet
Streets that follow like messageboard argument
of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming blog post
Oh, do not ask, "What, yaoi?"
Let us go and post an entry.
In the room the players come and go
Talking of their scores on Halo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the Windows PC
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the Macintosh
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening
Lingered upon the trackpads in their case
Let fall upon its back the crumbs that fall to keyboards,
Slipped by the flashdrive, made a sudden leap
and seeing that it was a soft October night
Curled once about the mouse, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the desk,
Rubbing its back upon the Windows PC;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the icons that you meet;
There will be time to murder and respawn
And time for all the Chrome and Firefox
That drag and drop a website on your plate;
Time for .doc and time for .ppt
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred fanfics and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the players come and go
Talking of their scores on Halo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Is this wanky?" "Is this fair?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair
With a comment on the level of your player
[They will say: "How his server's lagging slow!"]
My morning cosplay, collar mounting firmly to the chin
My website rich and modest, but accessed by a simple login
[They will say: "But how his content's growing thin!"]
Do I dare
Disturb the interwebs?
In a minute there is time
For fanfictions and revisions which Google Docs may reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the RPs, archives, messageboards
I have measured out my life with usernames.
I know the voices dying with a 404
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the mods already, known them all --
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase
And when I am banhammered, sprawling on a pin,
When I am banned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the fragments of my browser cache?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the sites already, known them all —-
Sites that are Web two-oh, white and bare
[But on my cellphone, still given to fail!]
It is the javascript impress
That makes them so digress?
Sites that stretch out like a table, or word-wrap like a shawl
And should I then presume?
And how should I log in?
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through archived files
And watched the dialup sequences that blink
No more from AOL in lonely Windows?
I should have been a line of ragged code,
Scuttling through the compiler, breaking apps.
And the messageboard, the website, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep...tired...or it malingers
Returning 404, here in front of me.
Should I, after iPhone apps and prices,
Have the strength to force AT&T to crisis?
But though I have wept and emailed, wept and played,
Though I have seen my avatar brought in upon a platter,
I am no hacker -- and here's no great matter;
I have seen the screen of my laptop flicker,
And I have seen the eternal bluescreen hold my eye, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the games, social media, the blogs,
Among the twitters, among some talk of IRC logs,
Would it have been worth while
To have bitten off the fandom with a smile,
To have squeezed the internet into a ball
To roll it toward some ass on Yahoo Questions
To say, "I am Babbage, come from the dead,
Come back to ban you all, I shall ban you all" --
If one, sending a textmessage, autocorrected
Should say: "That is not what I typed at all.
That is not it. LOL."
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would have been worth while
After the LOLcats and the macros and the youtube clips,
After the spambots, after the blog space, after LiveJournal trailing on the floor --
And Digg, and so much more? --
It is impossible to type just what I mean!
But as if a new .avi threw the nerves in patterns on the screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, texting or throwing back Red Bull,
And turning towards the PC, should say,
"That is not what I typed at all.
That is not it. OH LOL."
No! I am not Lovelace,
nor was meant to be,
Am on some messageboard, one that will do
To send things viral, start a meme or two,
Edit the wiki, no doubt an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Pwning, sometimes, but anonymous,
Filled with citations, all a bit obtuse;
These edits, indeed, almost ridiculous --
Can you not work Google?
I grow old... I grow old...
I shall add some links to my blog roll.
Shall I change my default pic? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall play some World of Warcraft, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the servers singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen cats talking in capslock on the web,
All up in ur fridge, eatin' ur food
When my laptop lights the darkness white and black.
We have lingered in the tubes of internet,
By URLS wreathed with info, loaded-down
Till cellphones ringing wake us, and we drown.
um. this is. *hyperventilates, passes out in admiration*
no, seriously. hand-to-the-forehead, twirly-swoon fainting action going on.
“ O Hai Just FYI— A veteran pseudo-fictioneer - An experiment in translation.
teh cookiez
i eated them
they was there
in ur kitchin
teh onez
u mebbe wanted
fur snackz
Very srry
they was delishus
srsly sweet
and so omnomnom. ”
fyi:
This Is Just To Say
(William Carlos Williams)
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
sofias
Maybe Soup is currently being updated? I'll try again automatically in a few seconds...
