The F Plus - 20: Idyll Hands and the Devil's Workshop

Episode Date: March 27, 2010

On the internet, there's a whole lot of people writing poetry, which begs the question: Is any of it any good? Probably. But it's not like we're doing this to find people with talent. For our twentieth episode, we present to you a variety of poems from a variety of sources about a variety of topics. The commonality here is that none of these have any respect for meter or dignity.

Hey folks, welcome to the F Plus Terrible Things, read with enthusiasm. My name's Lemon. And I'm John. And, you know, this is our 20th episode now. We've been running this for 20, well, more than 20 weeks, because we definitely have skipped weeks. But 20 episodes, and, you know, smattering in all of these episodes that we've done,

you know, there's usually, like, the little poetry section that just sort of happens organically. This time we decided that we just give you a full on poetry slam. Yes. Poetry for different subjects from different areas. And, you know, the great thing about poetry on the Internet, especially when people on a specific subject just write poetry instead of just, you know, being poets that write about anything. You know, you see the kind of guy, he took, like, just the English class in high school. They had to do some poetry to fill in some requirements.

And that's all the poetry experience they have. But they know from that how to do the best poetry. So they're going to do it about what they love. It's definitely true. You know, the difference between poetry and prose, in the last, I'd say, hundred years, has been that in prose, you have to write a sentence, right? So you need, like, your subject, you need your object,

you probably need a period, you need to capitalize something. And poetry, which was supposed to be, like, a more condensing down of words, ends up becoming something that's just easier because you can just put five words and as long as you put line breaks in there you're golden exactly that's the magic bullet of poetry line breaks break the line anywhere you want and it turns a sentence into poetry and then there's the whole question of you know do you rhyme do you not rhyme you know maybe you're like a better poet if you rhyme, but you also might be considered a sellout. Right.

And there's usually two laws. If you're going to write poetry, more often than not, you've got to make it rhyme. Because then how will people know it's poetry? It's got to rhyme. You know, it doesn't matter about how many syllables you have or if the syllables have a meter or, you know,'s just sentences that somehow kind of rhyme you put line breaks you know whatever make it rhyme if it doesn't rhyme make sure it's really really pretentious that way it's good because if there's no rhymes for the people to latch on to then it's got to be written about you know magic elephants and fairy space then there's just a couple of if it doesn't rhyme then there's a couple of

there's a couple of kind of keywords that you need to, if it doesn't rhyme, then there's a couple of there's a couple of kind of key words that you need to use. If it doesn't rhyme, then you need words like frozen, singular. It's just, yeah, you've got to have that breath and of importance to it. Right.

And also, is that if it's really terse? Because, you know, because the only thing that made E.E. Cummings different than any other poet is the fact that it's really terse, cause you know, cause the only thing that made E.E. Cummings different than any other poet is the fact that he wrote really short words and he didn't capitalize things. That's true. That's true.

That's actually, that's actually why E.E. Cummings is a good poet is because he didn't capitalize things. Exactly. So that's what we got for you. We have a selection of poetry kind of running a gamut from different subjects and different authors. I believe our first up is his name, Mikey Golightly? I don't know his name. Yeah, Mikey Golightly.

And I'm sure Truman and his grave loves being connected to this guy. Because he's a guy from Portlandland and he writes poetry i think that pretty much sums him up that does indeed sum him up he's got his own blog so we're going to start out with mikey go lightly and then we will be moving on to other authors from there let's get to our readers Tuesday, September 16, 2008. Love is the war. Love the war. Love is war.

Love war. Love war Love War Oh, yeah Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah All right This is the poem that belongs in a Like a Steven Seagal movie. She asked for the time.

I was not wearing a watch. So I glanced at the moon. It is our time, I said. What is it about bad poetry that just sounds like every 90s lyric ever? To every 90s pop song? It is our time! Tonight! It is our time, baby!

Ever since the day we met My girl rides her espresso machine. Like a Harley Haug. Oh, yeah. Ooh, ooh, ooh. I see her tattooed neck.

And bobbed hair as she pounds on the coffee grinder. Uh. Uh. Uh. It groans. Tamps down the shot and cranks the steam handle hard. Her body jammed against the machine.

She screws the portafilter in. It's so romantic. Then she... It's so romantic. A tight fit. A perfect espresso soul. Oh, God. She grunts out the seconds.

One, two, 3, 20. The magic number. Hey, she can't count. That's because she's a girl. Yeah, that's true. That's a good point. When it's just right, the nectar trickles down. Every drop into the cup. Every succulent bit.

She forgot to push the button that makes the water go through the coffee, but that's okay. Hey, this is poetry. Shut up. Alright. You can't, like, make rules for poetry. Yeah. She throws

everything into that shot. Cuts the heart. Oh, God. Cuts a heart into the milk foam. No, don't do that. Wait, he didn't even go through the frothing part. See, all I can picture is some guy behind the counter at Starbucks like, I'm waiting.

Works in like five minutes. Wipes her hands on the coffee-stained towel. And she's ready for another ride. Oh, my God. Oh, yeah. Oh my god Oh yeah Snap snap snap Snap snap that sucked Color Oh shit I wanted to do this one

This is okay So you have to know I found this guy Like okay He's actually a Related to one of my friends. Oh, dear. Oh, my God, my brother-in-law makes, like, the worst poetry. I'm like, really?

And then he sent this to me, and I was like, you've got to be kidding. So you can let him know directly just how big of fans we are? Yes, yes, I can. Color is not defined on one's skin. It is an emotion. It is an attitude.

It is a state of mind. But the masses are colorblind. I am turquoise Wow You need to We should call like a VN So we can actually know when to call

Oh yeah that's right The young woman of the Bigfoot so we can actually know when to call. Oh yeah, that's right. Oh, that was it. Okay, yeah, okay. Yay! The young woman of the Bigfoot is at large because it must support such a heavy woman. Heavy not in weight, but in heart. Yeah, that's what they all say. She looks away. And in weight.

It makes no difference. Her mind is empty. Her feet are large. Her heart is secret. Big foot secret heart, yeah. Is this called Poem to the Lady at the Freak Show?

I love you, Seth. You know, tonight I've watched the moon and then the Pleiades go down. The night is now half gone, youth goes I am

in bed alone. Is that snappy? That would be snappy. And I've got another little fragment here. Alright, I'll write the poem, you hit the enter key. Alright.

See, that's the fast track to good poetry. Line breaks. Just put them everywhere. Yeah, you take a Microsoft manual to good poetry. Line breaks. Just put them everywhere. Yeah, you take a Microsoft manual and then insert extra line breaks. It works. A little fragment here. If you are squeamish, don't prod the e-tron.

Read it again. Woo! If you are squeamish don't prod the beach rubble Wow It gets more powerful every time And apparently that's the collection of fragments called Fragments of Youth or something like that.

And there are 150 of those fragments. Yeah, I read one of those. I can only have that talent restored in just one website. That woman with the large feet, that was another fragment. I like his fragments a lot more than his long-form stuff. But his long-form stuff is also extremely bad. All right. Close the squirrel to the tree.

Oh, many-fingered one, where shall I lay my head? Quoth the tree to the squirrel. My little one, you shall lie elsewhere. Quoth the squirrel once again. Oh, many-fingered one,

your years are many, but your wisdom is none Oh take that tree And the tree snap That wasn't a poem That was a script for an interpretive dance The many fingered one And the tree snap

That's it We're done Oh man I'm going to read the next one there. Okay. Does one look to express his thoughts or only to make an impression on the others near him? Can someone really be said to have been a great speaker

or a great writer or a great poet if there is no one else who has heard his words? That's a cone right there. That is some Zen shit. That was a boat of him recognizing. We're answering Mikey Golightly right here. Because now people are hearing his words. Whoa.

We're helping him out, really. We've just validated him as a poet. I mean, I think that all of a sudden Mikey Golightly will explode in Japan every eye on a Berlin sidewalk tones its vision of architectural mishmashes of communist block apartments and the 20th

century rip-offs of classicism with the color of a jackbooted soldier stepping on the head of a young socialist until the jaw cracks and the gutter water runs a sweet, thick crimson. All in that street, they stopped and knew since they were still walking and chanting.

It wasn't real, and that boy lying purple on the sidewalk was just that. Something other. It was just that boy lying purple on the sidewalk. He was grim. No more, no less. Just a purple boy. But every eye knows that too many bodies laying on the streets dead for faith in humanity

means that if I want... What? Capital? Okay. Means that... New sentence. If I want to keep complaining about the graffiti and the discordant structures, I want to keep complaining about the graffiti and the discordant structures, it's best that I just walk on and hope that no one sees the vicious thought I have

of tearing it all to pieces with my bare hands and taking it all back for my family, blood-stained and dead. So does he write for Hallmark on the side? Okay, well guys... Oh shit, hold on, sorry, this one is paired with it, because they're in the same post. And I like the... I'm really sorry, but I'm doing this.

So these apparently go together somehow? Okay. Fourth grade, Mr. Davis' class on the edge of the playground, we fantasized about Dungeons and Dragons, invented tall tales to elevate imagined figures based on old mythologies. I knew nothing of Chinese religion, but a drawing of a hobbled old man leaning on a cane brought back visions of Yoda. And I guess I idolized that sage wisdom they embodied, the idea of never saying the wrong thing in public, always knowing the right words, the right manners.

That's why I must have always acted the part of the ancient Chinese god. So I wonder what my friends, both Chinese, aspired to when they modeled the world. They aspired to be Yoda. I never really got into all the Chinese history and Chinese religion, but it did remind me of a puppet I saw in a movie. So that's cool. So I wonder what my friends, both Chinese, aspired to when they modeled the wild Anglo figures of Odin and Loki.

Those masters of war, chaos, death. Does he think that Odin is a Chinese figure? He does. I wasn't following. My apologies. These thoughts don't occur to a nine-year-old boy who calls his teacher a communist, but they surface now

as if I'm still there amidst icy pools, the portable classrooms, and dot, dot, dot. Oh, is that it? Oh, good. Wow. Wow. We have to snap the ellipses?

I don't know if I want to. Well, the snaps have to go on for a while to still move. Okay, I have one more. Wait, wait. I want to just let us understand Mikey Golightly's understanding of science and melanin. All right. Are the people outside paled by the sun? Is that what makes them white?

Or is it the sun that turns them to color? Yep, that's it. Oh, yeah. I'm snapping my toes for that one. Okay, okay. All right, all right. Does the sun give you a tan? A poem?

I think you guys are really not questioning your insides enough, so that's why I'm reading this one. I ask a question of my liver every day. Why don't you work better? Have some booze. What the hell are you doing down there, Spleen? Answer me. It is a frail man

who cannot find within himself the lion or the hound or the gerbil. The gerbil. I do have a story about that one I'll leave it for later I think that's probably next week An ode to Richard Gere

Jack Chick, there's one you need to read in that same voice Let me drink some more wine here Servants, more wine! More of that cursed grape liquor! It is disastrous to be a wounded deer. I'm the most wounded. Wolves stalk.

And I have my failures, too. and I have my failures too. My flesh is put on the invisible hook. As a child, I saw many things I did not want to be. Am I the person I did not want to be? That talks-to-himself person? That neighbors-make-fun-of person? Am I he who, on museum steps,

sleeps on his side? Do I wear the cloth of a man who has failed? Am I the loony man? Look at you! In the great serenade of things,

am I the most cancelled passage? Sure. Probably. Yay! Yay! Alright. I've got one last one here.

It's a poem from a collection here, and he named the collection, his second collection, These Poems Kill Fascists. Oh. Oh, yeah. So we have a little. No, no, we have.

Guys, you've got to take this seriously. He's really working for some of you. He's got a little paragraph. He's got a little paragraph for this one fucking book. He's getting this shit done. Yeah. I want to test your poetry now. What he says is, I've got more technology than Thomas Paine could have imagined

and we're many, many years overdue for another revolution. Shit, yeah! This is my stab at fanning the flames of discontent into an inferno of peace and love and happiness. Let's see how long this fire burns. So here's one of the poems he's going to fan this fire. Yeah, inferno of love. I think you mixed your metaphors there. It's like that Christian song. Oh, desert lord muse,

under the April skies, I feel you cry out, what's my name, and dance your jungle love across a grassy oasis. I saw your chosen prophets in open shirts and preacher robes, floating pigs above the masses, and dropping acid confetti from a silent circling plain.

Above infernal explosions, I bathed in base with your unwashed followers and became a young lamb in your flock, my rock and roll savior. Guitar-faced screams melting me into the sands and the sunlight where I surf the straight ray beam of hope into the shooting star sky and shine that love back down. Lightning flashes of hope, Hope in once depressed Portland. Ready to blaze a fiery trail into our bright future and the next

American dream. In the desert, my compatriots from all the world's oases gathered together and cried out, let's rescue the American dream. Let's renew the American revolution. Oh, desert sun. Let the seeds of this new America scatter forth from the desert,

blown fast by trade winds of liberty, spreading across the vast new America, watered with rock and roll. We will sprout through the fruiting trees of this, the next greatest American generation, and we will take back the love, the peace, the hope. We'll win the war by refusing to fight. We'll inherit the earth, and you damn well better believe we're

gonna want it this time. The Oasis of Hope spreads with smiles shared on springtime streets back home, and the smoldering sparks of Little Beirut will explode into infernos once again with my little kiss of the hot desert wind. Here come the meek! We're gonna again with my little kiss of the hot desert wind. Here

come the meek! We're gonna kick your ass with flowers! Yeah! American Revolution will cost either two dollars or nothing. It just occurred to me that I can't really tell the difference between his

and the actual thing he's writing to talk about the poems and the poems themselves. It is difficult. But yes, this is amazing. I wrote the first two poems on Venice Beach. The second is an attempt to capture a dream I had at my friend's old house in Venice. I don't like to criticize myself, but I know these aren't that good. They're what came to mind in L.A.

I'm capable of better, but L.A. ruins everyone. Just look at what became of Elliot Smith. What? Whoa. Yeah, he's right, man. Who's Elliot Smith? About something.

I think I was even happier than my friends that they got out of there. I'll find a better muse again. Treat these as examples of what happens when you rot in the asshole of the USA. I almost got in a fight with some 5'7 tweaker meth head fucker. So he fucked the tweakers. And anyone who knows anything about me knows I'm all about peace. My god, it's a jungle. I almost got in a fight once! Dale, I'm such a man.

It makes me wonder how I keep from going under. I do love the contrast there. We're gonna fight with my liberal brethren and we're going to give all this acid-inspired imagery. Oh god, a guy on drugs. Oh, fuck. I also like

LA killed Elliot Smith because as we all know, Portland doesn't have any drugs in it. The wise man said to me, why? And I replied, oh wise man, I do not know. Ooh.

Damn. Although I don't know what wise man is actually speaking to him. Hey, man, I really would like to get Mikey Golightly's take on this shit. Hang on. Well, a wise man knows a wiser man when he sees it. That's true. Drink the black coffee! Black coffee!

Drink the black coffee! Stick with the wall! Black coffee! Black coffee! Black coffee! Stick with the wall! Black coffee! Thank you. So I know that, I know that, you know, I know that email poetry, you know, it's a little easy, a little obvious. Sometimes you just gotta have a bit of starch with your meal. Yeah, I would be hesitant if there wasn't always quality there. I want to read you a poem right here.

This is from Left EC. He is a whimpering thundercloud. Who is it? Art wheel. Art wheel. How would that even work? Somebody add that to the Google Doc. Wimpering Thundercloud.

What the fuck? Alright. This is called Pills. Although it's actually called Pills Kind of Depressed Lately. I swear this isn't just a Facebook update, it's a poll. A full title.

Well, it's a long Facebook update. Okay. Lefty C. I want to feel death. I want to understand everything. So I can hear your voice and know everything will be okay from now on. I want to stop breathing.

In the darkness of midnight, I want to take death's painful grip. Let death's thin bonnie hand clutch my heart in a tight embrace. I want to take a handful of pills and fall asleep. I want to be found wearing what they always want. What? Oh, okay.

Sitting on a closet floor surrounded by hell's angels wearing their light uniforms. Of blues and whites and pinks. I want the warriors to enter my throat. What? Can you dig a... Don't touch what I... Come on. And fall into their battlefield.

I want the fighters to be inspired, ready like a Spartan to destroy the enemy that my body has become. I want to feel it as they tear me to shreds and rip me with their swords and drugs. Hey Spartans, what you packing? We got swords

and drugs primitive biological warfare I want to see my own funeral I want to see myself lowered into the ground disintegration of an incorrect

vessel you got one part right. I need to feel the pain of a cyanide death as my body writhes in the end like the Jonestown mass suicides. What?

Okay. It's going to cold. I want to commit suicide. It would kind of be like that one suicide. Yeah. Finally, I want my body to be a mass in a thousand unmarked

graves. I don't want to be remembered. Okay, well, hey, we can get to work on that. It's too late now. You've been on the F+. The most popular podcast in my iTunes. Yeah, so this is,

this site, by the way, is the emo, it's called the emo corner, subtitled the emo hangout. I guess they couldn't decide which they really wanted. The Emo Corner Hangout. The Emo Hangout Corner. The Emo Hangout. You have to bring your own noose.

Anyways. Here goes PorcelainDoll09, who is, by the way, a delicate snowflake. That's good to know. That's a coincidence. Well, I haven't been on for ages. And to mark my return,

I thought I would post something up. But the only poem I have right now totally sooks. So I'm sorry that it's not good enough. Oh, I'm sure it's fine, PorcelainDoll09. How would it feel to hurt someone else?

To hear someone else screaming my name? Those are two separate questions. How would I feel if you were to drop dead? If you were to disappear, my love, my hate? Are you going to answer that? Let her finish, all right?

I want to get the entirety of this. Stop rushing her, okay? Okay, I'm sorry, porcelain doll. I'm writing my own poem in response. Why does he rush me so much? or okay? Okay, I'm sorry, porcelain doll. I'll write my own poem in response. Why does he rush me so much? Come paint the walls,

my dear, with your hate for me. Wait, hate jizz all over the... I hate this wallpaper! With your blood screaming, begging,

and you hear it asking for release? I can't. Not really. Come paint the walls, my dear, in an effort to stay right here. Oh, shit. Wait, you rhymed something. That's gonna throw your whole poem off.

So, you can stay rent-free. You just got to paint more often. All right, now I got the gist of this. If I were to hurt someone else, baby, it wouldn't be the same. It's your voice, after all, that I want to hear. Begging for mercy. Wow, you're angry.

My sweet lullaby playing all through the night. Angry lullaby. Rock-a-bye, baby. I can imagine it's sort of like GWAR. Rock-a-bye, baby, on the treetop. I think that's Jack Chick's bailiwick there. Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird, and if that mockingbird don't sing, then shut up!

Then I'm gonna chop your head off and drink your blood! If you were to drop dead, I would frown. No! And walk past. Yes! and walk past. If you were to disappear, I would cry and then laugh. Oh, wow.

Yeah, she's... Her mood swings are getting a little bit worse. Yeah. We played a nice game. Had we not, my pet? Where did that line come from? Did you accidentally write that? I'm sorry,

I'm sorry, I'm getting too in character here. Oh, and here's the chorus again. Come paint the walls, my dear, with your hate for me. With your blood screaming, begging, can you hear it asking for release? Come paint the

walls, my dear, in an effort to stay right here. I'm trying to find who the hell this person is. This is Fallen Angel Gabrid. Gabrid. Gabrid. Yeah. Gabridai.

Gabri- Life is a burden that I have to face alone. Nobody understands me. I feel alone. I always face the darkness alone. I fight the war alone. That is inside my soul. That is in my heart.

That is inside my thoughts. I walk a lonely path. And it's called life, my burden, that I have to face alone. Yeah! Oh, so good! I have to face alone. Yeah! Oh, so good! That's not a poem. That's a paragraph with no punctuation. Equals slash

prose, if anything. That's true. That's true. A paragraph with no punctuation counts as prose. Somebody poemed it all up afterwards. Oh yeah, Elginon took care of that. He's really, really helpful here.

I added the poem text, sent you. I just read it with the poem layout in mind. E.G. Life is a burden, totally pause, that I have to face alone, pause again. Nobody understands me, some more pausing. I feel alone, like... Guitar solo! I always face the darkness, Wait for it. Pause.

Alone. I fight the war. You know? Alone. Dead, dead, dead, dead! I'm trying my best. I am just writing down what I feel, I think, they're good because I feel these emotions every day. If you don't like it, it is fine, but as I said, it is the way I feel. My own words, all my poems are.

Oh my. It's good to write what you feel. Emotionless poetry is shit. But you can't have, you can't just have raw emotion. Be a little more mysterious. Don't keep repeating

alone. Use different words. Lonely, lost, stranded, confined, etc. But don't use those. Those are mine, man. Especially in that order. Yes. Don't just write when you're sad please write when you're happy

I want more people on here writing happy poems hold your breath on that one on emo corner.com why is there so much morose angst on the emo corner of the emo hangout hey I write poems with all my emotion

happy sad love hate loneliness whatever I feel I write poems with all my emotion, happy, sad, love, hate, loneliness, whatever I feel. I write it down. It's like a spam bot for emos. Why did the word Cialis not end up in there? Sad, hate, lonely, hate. I write Cialis with all my emotion, happy, penis, love, big penis, loneliness. I consolidate your intent.

All right. This one is for Squiddy. emotion, happy penis, love, big penis, loneliness. They consolidate your intent. Alright, this one is for Squiddy. And it is called... Oh, I don't want to give away what it's called. I'm emo pixie and this is called date rape. You're a tortured rose. How do you pronounce the double commas?

I don't know. I was worried about that. This could be critical. A joke, a game, a score for him. Turned my life, changed me forever. Maybe I wouldn't have stayed pure, but his decent was a dose of the devil. Was a dose of the devil that spread through me and not easily cured his hot, sweaty body, he weighed mine down

and blurred my already drunk vision, telling me to hold on tight. Taming my whispers and screams, I closed my eyes in pain. He took my innocence away. And who's to say he's right to this day? He was rewarded and congratulated for a piece of my

life. I may be bruised inside, but growing strong. Can we have Acier read this? I think Acier's the one best equipped to read all the misspellings. Holy shit. Okay, good luck. Thank you.

This is from guest__star. And this is kind of explicit, I guess. A whole bunch of stuff about blood. It sucks anyway, even if you don't care about blood and whatnot. Just click the little back button and go read someone else's. Okay?

This is kind of more of a story than a poem. In fact, there is no poetry at all in it. Damn it! I know that this really sucks, so post whatever you want. Hey, here's some words, like,

um, fuck it. I secretly walked down my stairs to the dining room and got a glance of the bathroom. I closed my eyes, envisioning the room with blood splattered everywhere, the way I knew it was going to be in a few minutes. I walk to the kitchen and go get a dullish blade,

duller that a steak knife, but sharper that a butter knife, only to make the pain more entenky. I walk over to the bathroom and close the door. I turn on the light and look directly into my own face. You could see the tear stains of three years of depression in my eyes. If he was looking in the mirror, why could I see the tear stains? It's assumed that you're following this guy around to see what he writes next. Maybe he could have washed his face at some point over those three years or something.

Maybe he could have washed his face at some point over those three years or something. I rustled through the various things we had in our bathroom cabinet and picked out some black nail polish, realizing that my hands were quivering. The note ought my parents was in my room if I went too far. I poured the nail plish all over my face, in my eyes, and down my cheek. Why? I got some on my finger and smeared it on my wrist. I grabbed hold of the knife and plunged it deep into the smeared black polish,

almost cutting through my skin to my VNs. Almost cutting through my skin? Deep down into the polish. Almost going one half of a pill piece. Plunged.

Plunged deep into the folds of my arm. I put pressure with both hands Okay. I put pressure with both hands and pulled a knife down my arm. You can't do that.

He's got three hands. He's using his dick, guys. Come on. That makes sense. I felt pain, but that was my objective. The blood started coming, gushing out rapidly. Why? You cut the skin. But he's got three hands. This is an emo Japanese samurai movie. Don't question it.

There you go. I smeared some on my hand and rubbed it on my face, creating a dark, dark, true blood red color. On HBO. Watch it. My true color actually showed on my face now. I walked out of the bathroom, leaving trails of blood through the house,

through the door to the outside. Danny? Danny, will you clean up this mess, please? Aw, Mom! I'm trying to kill myself. I was not afraid of the dark, and I didn't mind the cold. I walked quickly out the door and started walking.

I kept walking and walking, and after a while I felt dizzy, but I finally got to her house. I went up to the front lawn and lay out there. After about five minutes, I got up and walked... Oh, this is gonna be so cool!

This is gonna be so cool! This sucks. Alright, I'm gonna bring the so cool. This is going to be so cool. This sucks. All right, I'm going to bring the doorbell. This grass itches. I rode with my own blood, standing the door of her house, please forgive me, and I walked back.

As I walked along, I fell to the ground, toe dizzy from blood loss. I found myself still holding the knife I had earlier and deepened the wound. I started to cut everywhere. On my calf, on my ankles, and on my back.

I finally got tired of the pain. The most flexible dude ever. He should have fucking got a job with Cirque du Soleil. He's a sukiyaki chef. Of pain. Tonight at Jim Rose Circus, the guy who pretends to kill himself.

I finally got tired of the pain. It still does not distract me from the pain I felt inside. I felt useless and alone, and for a second I thought my heart stopped beating. Life wasn't worth living

if this is how I fell all the time. He's so clumsy! I finale for the last time, plunge the knife once more, slitting my throat.

I died! I didn't actually feel the pain that time, because I was so focused with the little conch-iousness I had left. I'm a girl who had just run out of the house. Man, why didn't I do this in the first place? This seems a lot more efficient. I'm not really a student of anatomy, so I started cutting my toenails,

thinking that would do it. And I cut my hair. No luck there. I cut my trapper keeper. I couldn't recognize her because by the time she got close enough for me to see her face I fell asleep.

And I never woke up again. Oh. Tell me what you think. Good or bad comments. Anything. Please pay attention to me! I love that. Could use some more description, of course. Want me to edit that a little bit for you?

Hey, Betty, that kid doused himself in nail polish and cut himself up and passed out on the lawn again. Get the red lawnmower! Should I go get him? No, not this time. Leave him there. He'll be up in about five minutes. Don't worry about him. Oh, you gotta read the last one. There's a comment from, I think it's another guest.

I guess guest underscore underscore asterisk is any guest account. I loved it. I liked the ending where the girl comes to the person then he was dead. Sad story, but I loved it. I liked the ending where the girl comes to the person, then he was dead. Sad story, but I loved it. To me, xoxox. P.S. Good for Ur first time.

Oh me god, I love it, but it's so fucking sad. I'm seriously bawling now, but I loved it. Ah, wow. These are all just replies by the author. Would you look at me now? Would you look at me now?

Can you tell I'm a man? Can you tell I'm a man? With the scars on my wrist to prove I'll try again. Try to die again Try to live through this night So what subjects do you think are most ripe for poetry? This is just a question, open question.

Nature. Nature, that's a good one. Love, that's another good one. Shuffleboard. Shuffleboard? That's common, but good. Men from Nantucket. Oh, yeah.

I got a question for you, though. You ever heard, um, you ever read poetry about mixed martial arts? Well, of course. Silly. Oh, Sherdog. Oh, damn. Of course.

For anyone that doesn't know, this is where all the dumb fuck meatheads of the internet go to. I have a friend. Never mind. Thank you. All right. So this is Sherdog. Oh, my God. As explained.

Okay. El explained. Okay. El Galo Negro. Oh. Oh. My knuckles are busted. I fast bruised and battered. My body wore torn. Every night I go

through this transformation To some it seems a bit brute and deranged But to its practitioner it's chaos in a perfect world Every one of us are adrenaline junkies, am I right? Swallowing our own blood while bathing in the blood of our opponent In a heated bliss we strike bone to flesh As we dance to the tune of the roaring crowd.

Chasting for our deaths at the hands of our fellow brethren who loves us wholeheartedly and I know not to show us mercy in any way. It's a type of cold hard love that we only know. To most, it will be conceived as hate.

But to the trained eye It's a lesson in life Outside of this brotherhood Where no one will show you mercy Through a swollen shard We dream of making it to the big show Some do, some never do To the ones who do their names

We'll be etched in the hall of fame And to the rest we weep In sorrow for our defeat And in happiness who do their names will be etched in all of them, and to the rest we weep. In sorrow for our defeat and in happiness, none of us has tested victory sweeter than life itself. This is the life of a modern-day warrior.

I stand before you a broken man, tendon stretched beyond capacity, nose broken and blood flowing. Don't feel stretched beyond capacity. Nose broken and blood flowing. Don't feel sad for me. Look into our eyes and then burn a fury. Wait.

Don't feel sad for me. Look into our eyes and then burn a fury hotter than the flames of H-E double hockey sticks. We will fight the ass of the fight of sticks. We will fight you out of the fire of death. This is the vicious cycle of a fighter.

Yes! I'd like to thank you for censoring that at the end. I didn't want to offend anyone. Funny Brad, can I get one quick request here? Hey, everybody. Can I get you to say, Speedy Gonzalez, we're surely out with that pussycat?

Speedy Gonzales was surely out with that pussycat. Thank you. I do love the first response here of Sinatra. As if this is a really standard thing where they write poetry on motherfucking MMA forums. You're way too obvious in this piece, man. Holy shit. Can I read Steak's poem? Steak?

Yeah, it's post number six on here. Okay, yeah, yeah. It's the first poem. This is the first poem I ever wrote. Your smile is my soul's delight. Your beauty makes me soar in flight.

Alone whilst writing this I feel so bleak. Given the impossible task of you giving your body a fair critique. Your body burns like a fire. It makes my cock ache with such desire. My rooster wants you, baby. My passion for you makes me nearly explode. I think I might lose my load.

I've studied all the greats. Yates, Byron, Def Leppard. Without you, I'm trapped in the dark moonlight. By your side, I stay under the sun's bright light. I rhyme light with light. Your figure is so sleek. I love the way your nipples peak. Heaven's angels sing in choir.

The gods themselves must conspire of how to lure you to their abode to bang you like a drum after playing you their sweet ode. Baby, you're so sexy even Zeus would fuck you. Oh, wow.

I think of you all... Oh, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. Oh, silence, silence. Okay. Okay. I think of you all night long while I sit alone playing with my dong. Yay. Oh, sorry.

That was the end. I got it. That was the end. I should reread that and get it. I think of you all night long while I sit alone playing with my dong. I just love imagining all the furtive looks the English majors are giving him in the class. Like, so what do you think? That's great.

I really liked it. That's, um, yes. Yeah. You could beat me up, so I'm sure. I'm sure I butchered whatever format poems are written in I just did this I'm sure I like mangled whatever language

y'all are speaking uh Kumquat I believe this is yours we have one more bit of MMA poetry this is yours. Uh-oh. We have one more bit of MMA poetry. This is In Ink 86. He's a college student, by the way.

Blood on the mat. Here is our north-south. To that which you will stop. Here are our strikes, no knockouts, shoot and mount. Here is our cut, perfectly contained for you.

We hold guard, cradled clinch. Our takedown hurts your sprawl! Is this all jargon? Yeah, I can explain this, but, you know, I ruin the jokes. Yet you stand up while we ground and pound. Here is our submission, and pound. Here is our submission. Your slam.

Wow. Can I read a continuation to this? You know, in keeping with the theme of academic MMA poetry. Okay. I have to read the intro to this. I wrote this sonnet poem for HW. I was kind of pissed at the teacher. She gave me a D when I know I deserve better and so forth.

My mom was pissed and wouldn't let me wrestle in counties, and this is the sonnet I made. English to me is a waste of time. English to me is a waste of time. I'd rather tackle a guy down than have stupid sonnets rhyme. Wrestling is a passion that I found. There are scratches and bruises on me. Each class you look at me as if I'm a sin.

What? Thou shalt not covet English. Since you don't like me, just let me be. But I don't care because all I want is a pin. Come here, Grandma! Come here, Grandma! To have my hand raised high in the air, but stupid English class is in the way! This is something I cannot bear!

Since without wrestling, there is no day. As in, they're naked. Yes. P.S. I know it sucked, but I got 20-20-0 and things to tap out Grapler Poem for giving me an idea of what to write. Oh, and just to let you know I'm a freshman in high school. No shit. No. No. I'm a freshman in high school. No. No shit. No. I got a D on this somehow.

Then I got a C- on the one where I said, Dear Mrs. Carruthers, you fucking suck. Why are you teaching us faggot lessons? I ain't never gonna need to learn language, bitch. That's all I need.

All right. Yeah, I liked that a lot. I am a sensitive artist. I am a sensitive artist. I am a sensitive artist. I am a sensitive artist. I am a sensitive artist. I am a sensitive artist. I am a sensitive artist.

Nobody understands me because I am so deep. And there we go. F plus episode 20 poetry slam. John, what did you think you learned this week? 2020 Poetry Slam. John, what did you think you learned this week? I learned that the strangest of people and the hobbies that I don't think would have any connection to poetry like to write poems about things. Yeah, yeah.

Like, you know, emo stuff, of course they're going to write poems. I mean, they live for that. I mean, come on, that sums them up so perfectly. It's pretentious, it's whiny, it makes them seem smarter than they actually are. It's about death and sex that you're not having. But MMA, poetry about MMA, I mean, that's just... I can't even imagine the kind of person

who would be like, you just watch a whole thing on Ultimate Fighting Tournament or Championship, whatever, and then just like, yeah, I'm going to write some lines about this tonight. Do you think he brags to his friends? Like, I fucking wrote some stanzas about that shit. It was pretty extreme.

I really don't know. My initial instinct is to think that he's probably keeping this to himself. Or it's like, this is a secret shame. He has the outlet of the internet but like but your diary exactly but i do have one little theory and i think it's because

if you write a short story or especially a novel you got to put some time into it even if it's shitty you got to put some effort into writing down the words and getting a narrative going sure you write a blog post nobody's going to really read it unless it's got some thought to it or people are interested in it which there's so many different blogs and you know right with the kind of people are talking about here you know good luck right but a poem is short it's contained and it has the pretense already latched onto it that it's some form of art. So I think a lot of people kind of gravitate towards that because you can get it knocked out in like 10 minutes. All you have to do is make sure it either rhymes or it's got line breaks,

and you feel like you've accomplished something, even if you haven't. That's very true. I wonder if sort of expressionist art might someday get that same thing. Because, you know, definitely people have been doing expressionist art might someday get that same thing. Because, you know, there's, I mean, definitely people have been doing expressionist art for, you know, a good probably 300 years. And it's always been, you know, and it does have that same idea of you could theoretically just bang one of these out in 10 minutes. And nobody's kind of jumped on that bandwagon. Right. I don't know.

Just a random thought I was thinking about. The other thing that I was thinking about is that the F Plus itself has, I think, officially sold out. We now have a Facebook profile. Wow. Did you know that? I did not know. Yeah. And I'm like the number two guy in the F Plus.

I don't even know. I keep up with things. Yeah, I set it up a couple days ago. So if you want to be a fan of the F+, write on walls and poke and tell

other F-plus members about how good your score was in Mafia Wars and shit. Yeah, and send them requests for them to do stuff for you on Farmville, because that never gets old. No, no, you absolutely are encouraged to participate.

The link is on thefpl.us. And yes, and please, if you ever get the chance, just submit any old thing you find on the internet that might be weird. You know, we might not use it, but we might, and submissions are what keep this site rolling. Indeed. So, hold a site in this podcast.

We know you come across crazy bullshit on the internet, and we want to see it. Right. So, thank you for listening to our little show. And now that we've said that, now you know. See? Like one minute. One minute I've made art.

That was great! That was all snaps for you. I'm breaking that line right there. Thanks for listening. Good night. Good night. Lady White on the TV. Yeah, she had another quality. The way we used to love. And I know you never read her. Just the way that her hair fell down around her face.

At one point, was there an aggressive twine ball market? Well, it's like that burger thing. Like the restaurant is, our restaurant has the largest burger. It's four pounds burger thing. Our restaurant has the largest burger. It's four pounds and someone makes an eight pound burger. Now there's a place in America that sells a 35 pound burger. That's in Texas.

It was all in a two year span. The burger race is really accelerating at a frightening pace. We have to beat the Russians at something. Yeah. Would you like to play Global Thermo Burger War?