The F Plus - 85: Drowning In A Bucket Of Words

Episode Date: November 6, 2012

Here is some poetry. It is butt.

You ain't Ard, you're just a fat bloke with a temper. Come at me, fat boy, come on, let's see how many bones I can break. It looks like something from far away Inside the image frozen makes the shadow fade Behind the image posted on your wall I've got this hiding, hiding, hiding Just looking for something Hey there, this is the F Plus Podcast. Terrible Things Read With Enthusiasm.

My name's Lemon. And I'm Portax. And I'm Stog. And I'm excited for this one. We got three of you here. Because we're going to do another poetry episode. It has been a very long time. Hey, I got a poem.

I got a poem you should listen to. I just wrote it. Yeah, I just wrote it now. You were just introducing yourself. Oh man, that's fast. I'm terrified and encouraged, so that's usually a good cocktail. Go for it. This is a poem called Internet Poetry.

Okay. Drinking and feeling mentally fucking lost in the wilderness. This is a poem called Internet Poetry. Okay. Drinking and feeling mentally fucking lost in the wilderness. Drinking more and looking out the window, thinking about a world abandoned. Facebook never stops blinking. Twitter's just full of shit I subscribe to. I Google for poetry and find myself contemplating. Contemplating on fucking on a pile of junk.

Getting splinters in my asshole and balls. Exploring new worlds of internet poetry. Harvesting Lisa Frank-style fields of glitter. Slipping and drowning in vats of purple prose poems. Dancing to the worst rhyme scheme in the world. Getting progressively drunk as I find the nexus between poetry and performance art falling into the zone fuck society bush america conservatives bush hitler malls doctors gatorade high school george carlin reddit libertarian wake up america wake up america wake up america bringing my bottle of booze to bed with me Reddit Libertarian Wake up America Wake up America Wake up America

Bringing my bottle of booze to bed with me Sleeping on top of it Feeling the glass shards puncture my flabby gut Charles Bukowski would be proud Tool comes on but I can't hear it What's so funny? That's good Alright, you want more of that? Because I do Readers assemble! What's so funny? That's good. It's good.

All right. You want more of that? Because I do. Yeah, yeah. Thank you. Readers assemble. Okay. In the room today, we have Stog.

You know there's no one coming, and my tongue is made of butter juice, butter juice, butter juice. Poor text. Roses are red. Violets are blue. Butter juice. Left-hand radio zone. Adamoses are red. Violets are blue. Butter juice. Left hand radio zone. Adam Bozarth.

Apparently in there somewhere there is neither light nor sound nor thoughts. Whitney Houston just died. Lemon. I'ma eat pussy the best. Why? I can't do it with the rest. And it's fun. And Isfahan.

All right. Well, Isfahan, if you'll actually start us out with a classy, classy, classy poem, simply called A Juggalo Poem. Okay. My name is Sorrowcurse. Hi, Sorrowcurse. And this juggalo poem is entitled A Juggalo Poem. Sorrowcurse, could I ask, you know, like, I think sometimes a writer's greatest assets are his inspirations.

Who are your favorite poets? Okay, my favorite poets are DK6 underscore Marius. Sure. Myths Demon. Oh, he's a good one. T-Nothing. Devilish. Lady Hawk, like the movie.

And Nameless Mahdi. Oh, the classics! Well, I'm glad Nameless Mahdi is finally getting their due recognition.

You know, never appreciated in his own time. Yeah, it didn't sell well because they never made anything to sell.

Alright, sorry, what's your poem? My poem is entitled A Juggalo Poem. I am from the underground where M. Alley rats dwell. I believe in Shangri-La and to the world I say

fuck hell. Fuck hell. Extreme obscenities. You will always see me with a bottle of flavored Faygo. The taste is so refreshing, and the flavors glisten like a rainbow. Can I get a non-flavored

Faygo, please? Crystal Faygo. Sparkling Faygo. This one just tastes like failure. This ad copy is horrible. I bump the wicked shit, and I feel more alive than ever. The juggalettes I know are so down, they make me feel entirely better. Ooh.

Oh, dear. At this point, I'm not really sure he knows what rhyming is. I crave Ned and... Wait, wait, wait. Did you say this guy doesn't know what rhyming is? I think you should read this next couplet and then be proven wrong. Oh, I'm sorry. Did I jump the gun here?

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I crave Nedden like a serial killer whom enjoys murdering. If I could, you'd find me at every Juggalo gathering. Oh, you're right. I'm sorry. I think it's zing and ing, motherfuckers. Zing and ing. Fuck haters. They can always hate.

What will never die nor fade? I only wonder how many people take the word juggalo to their place grave. I apostrophe am a juggalo. That has clown love living deep beneath my aching heart.

It's probably like clogging your arteries. Yeah. Probably cholesterol. I apostrophe am with the face paint and I apostrophe am always down to sport a cap and t-shirt. What? Wow, you're so brave. RT does not mean that that rhymes, you goober. Actually, you know what?

I bet a lot of juggalos go around shirtless most of their lives. Well, they're so-so. Hey, man, you down to sport a cap and t-shirt? Fuck yeah, let's go crazy! I'm gonna pretend I'm a baseball man. Take that, society. Wearing a cap and t-shirt. The world's against us.

Hey, hey, you kids. You kids in the caps, get out of here! Fuck you, principal! No, I was thinking like Carmen Miranda, like fruit hat. Oh, yeah. No, it's a gateway hat to those hats. Pretty soon they'll be wearing beanies. Yeah, like the ten-gallon hat.

But there's one more couplet. Sure. With the little running hatchet man crafted on so tightly. Yeah, tightly. And with that being said, I apostrophe am gonna always be part of this Juggalo family semicolon. Copyright 2011 sorrow curse. Damn it! Authorized copying is prohibited.

Ask the author first. The semicolon is just him. Oh, I'm sorry. I have an author's note for you here. I want to run with this hatchet. I want to hold with this hatchet. I want to hold up this hatchet. Alright, uh... So, uh...

Portax, I'm sorry, Bethany Ballot. Bethany Ballot. Maybe it's ballet. Bethany Ballot. Anyway, Bethany, you had a poem that you wanted to share with us? Yes. Good. Yeah, I'm Bethany You had a poem that you wanted to share with us? Yes Good

I'm Beth AnyBallet And my poem is called School, school, school School, school, school School, school, school Yeah, I was about to say It's either to Girls, girls, girls

Or it's about fish It's either to, it must be to girls, girls, girls. Or it's about fish. I look around. I hear the sounds. This people-filled place of quote-unquote learning. They teach us to read. They teach us to count. But why so early in the morning?

Yeah! Is there like a handbook somewhere that says you have to rhyme? You can rhyme ing with ing? Sure, I'm sure there's actually a style guide somewhere on the site. Yeah, American Middle School English class. I ask myself every day

at six, why must I go through this again? I think of my parents and how they wish they could start all over again. Jesus. You're rhyming the same word with each other. I'm sure her parents, that part's true, though. I believe if they could come back in the midst of all the time. What?

Yeah, to just be among the time again. Sure. In the midst of all the time... What? Yeah, to just be among the time again. Sure. In the midst of all time. So from the beginning of time to the end of time, somewhere in the midst of that. Right. Yeah. I would not be as wise as I am. And my life would not be as fine.

Where's the part about the school? I... It was in the beginning. Oh, okay. Then it meandered. I have been somewhere where talking surrounds me. Me too! And breathing is just a game.

But to the little boy in the corner of the world, I will come play with you, and we... What? We can be there for each other, just as my family is for me. Okay, seriously, I thought this poem was going somewhere, but I guess I was just ranting. Any thoughts on how to help clear my head? I'm at school in a computer class with nothing productive to do.

Fucking computer class, maybe! It got super meta at the end there. Damn. It really pulled that poem together at the end. Yeah, like at the beginning it just sounded like a really shitty poem, but then all of a sudden... Yeah, I dig the free verse turn it took. Man, Al Anarchy actually tries to help with a very extensive review.

Is he the Rob the Parrot of the Sun? Yeah, I really did like this. It did seem to stumble out of its original context after the line, and my life would not be as fine. The next two lines were okay, but after that I felt like he started to loose me. I'd expand on the, I think of my parents and how they wish they could start all over again, dot dot dot. I really, what, no. I really... What? No. I really like that train of thought, and I thought it was a shame that you didn't shade it in more.

He has two more comments helping. Alright, we're going to actually leave, for a moment, we're going to leave Dark Poetry to a site called Hello Poetry. Yes! And this is another proper Juggalo poem. Stog, I believe you have some sort of problem with your hatchet. Hi, my name is Kitty Parson. Yeah? And my hatchet is on fire.

Oh no! Is that good? I don't know. That's a medical problem. It's going to be a problem when chopping down wood, though. That is true. You'll make a fireplace, right, where you stand. Yeah, it just eliminates a step in chopping firewood.

That's all. And my hatchet is on fire, a poem by me, Kitty Parson. My heart pounds for your smile, dog breath. I like you more than a hooker likes meth. All right. That works. That's cute.

You may be family and I may call you bro, but it's not incest when you're a juggalo. Is that a legal standard? It should be. Well, I guess Spectromex approves then. Well, this got creepy. I mean, sexy. Fast. Keep going.

I'll never forget the day that we met. One kiss and I wanted to be your jug-a-let. My passion for you burns like a thousand suns. It can't be contained, even if I were restrained by nuns. Sons. That's enough for holding your bag. Like, let me out. Sons. If I were restrained by the hun No, that would be more Nuns! I guess it's gotta be nuns My desire for you isn't even satirical

If you think about it, it's kind of a miracle Drawn together like magnets, how do they work? Yes! It's gotta be parody, come on. Ha ha, ha ha, did you see what I did there? I did, yeah. And the way you touch my butt

drives me berserk. She's got a berserk button inside of her butt! Berserk button! Berserk button. Hey, you like this? It's just like, you won't like me when I'm butt-touched. You're making me butt-touched. You wrangle records like a big-money rustler.

I like Lady Gaga and ain't much of a hustler. I was born this way, but my heart can grow bigger. If you'll take my hand and say you're my nigga. Ugh. What? Fucking awful. Yeah. Oh yeah, well, Seth

Connor Jackson likes it. Oh, okay. When are we ever gonna read some good poetry in these episodes? God. The author's photo is a picture of her curled up in a field position lying on a pile of baby dolls. Yes, it is. That's like what a cat does. That's true.

She was born in 1971. Yeah. But she didn't put a death date. No, she hasn't died yet. I mean, as far as the site knows. Yeah, is someone going to film this? Yeah, who's going to update this when she dies? She's probably the only person who has this account name, right? So, Adam, if you will scroll down to the one titled

Hey, You Kids Get Off My Lawn. Oh, nice. Is this the CF Hardcore? Oh, I don't think that's the title. No, no. I think the title's probably called Kids These Days. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Kids These Days.

From deepundergroundpoetry.com. Deep underground! Poetry. Kids These Days. Kids These Days, always whining, self-centered, andetry.com. Deep underground! Poetry. Kids these days. Kids these days, always whining, self-centered and entitled. Sure. Where's the parental supervision? What's keeping our society from going down the drain?

I am horrified to see kids having sex, running around being filthy little whores. You see kids having sex? Those are adult babies. I know it's hard to tell the difference. I found it's hard to tell the difference. I found this poetry in the basement! Also, this isn't poetry.

This is just a rant. Yeah, it's underground poetry because a crazy man was in the basement writing it. Rorschach's journal entry number two. Nothing is sacred anymore, I guess. I see young girls wearing the bare minimum talking about sex like they're so damned experience how they can deep throat a dick and ride like a rodeo star it's a crying shame if i only knew how much every little fuck they gave out when they were younger will pain them in the future.

Huh. Um, uh, sure. What the hell is that? There has to be a neighborhood meeting in his, this has gone on far too long. Yeah, what is up with these child orgies? Everyone else is a pervert! I'm thinking about children having sex. There's something wrong with everyone else.

With your slap bracelets and your deep-throating rainbow parties. Rainbow parties. Oh, boy. He continues. I see little boys, 13, 14, 15. Wait, you shouldn't after the court order.

You should stop seeing them. So I see these three boys, 13, 14, and 15. after the court order. You should stop seeing them. So I see these three boys, 13, 14, and 15. That's their names. Acting like they're the shit. Tough as fuck. A real gangster. Hipster. Whatever the fucking fad is these days.

Pull up your pants, kiddo. I'm so sick of seeing your underwear. Did Michael Barrier write this? It's terrible. All these shameless kids talking about sex and little boys. I can see their underwear. So if you guys are following, the rhyme scheme of this

one is A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, G. 13 rhymes with 14. Oh, that's true. They're all spoiled fucking brats. They're always glued to cell phones, media crazed, and drama frenzied, rude and impatient to all those around them.

This generation has gone to hell. I look at the younger ones, the single digits, and I can see the infection spreading, conceited and demanding, ordering their parents around like little kings and queens. So this is a world where children have taken over. Yeah. Yes.

Much like my neighborhood of Park Slope, Brooklyn. Where kids are allowed in bars. I'm not even sure what to blame. Parents? Media? Technology? My insane imagination. My schizophrenia? The delusions? sure what to blame. Parents? Media technology? My insane imagination? My schizophrenia? The delusions? Who's to say, really? My lost youth?

I'm sure they all play a part in this disgusting display of immaturity. It's almost like they're not fully adults yet. It's almost like this was written by a not fully adult. I fear to be a mother someday. I think watching all these little fuckers

grow up has ruined it for me. I can't stand the thought of raising such a self-absorbed little monster. He'll take after me, apparently. That's okay. Nobody wants to have sex with you, so don't worry about it. No, this was her dating profile You don't know

Personal gain and hierarchy Is all they care about Eight year olds Yeah, those kids climbing the corporate ladder They'll crush anyone that gets in their way Those little assholes Social standing beauty and having the most advanced toy

on the market. Superficial shit, if you ask me. Where are our sweet, quiet, meek kids? The ones with good morals, self-control, and genuine empathy? They grow up to be fucking lunatics on this website. They go insane because nobody's following the rules.

I think they are an extinct race. Heartbreaking. I know. Oh, God. So this lady has written a nice guy screed about children.

Yeah. You know, when all the nice adults are gone, then those little kids will be sorry. Maybe if I didn't have kids, you'd all feel sorry for me. Just be like, you children need to stop being so stuck up and pick me as your mom, you little assholes. Or am I not popular enough? Alright, um, I got a couple poems,

so I'm taking requests. Which would you like to hear? Lost verses from the Cypher sickness, or I Wanted to Mary's Twat? I gotta go or I Wanted to Marry's Twat. I gotta go with I Wanted to Marry's Twat. I'm assuming the second one delivers one of the promises.

It totally does. And it was kind of a false choice because I knew what you'd pick anyway. The Cypher Sickness is still fun, but this one's called I Wanted to Marry's Twat. So, yeah. Alright. I Wanted to Into Mary's Twat, so yeah. Alright. I want into Mary's twat. Her cunt is

wet and very hot. This is Dr. Seuss verse. At Al's restaurant. Al's restaurant. But far too limp is my poor prick. I'll use my big thumb as a dick. How big is your thumb?

It's a big thumb. She wears no bra. Her tits are bare. And she shaves all her pussy hair. Her twat is covered by a thong. I'll make that thong be long gone. Oh, sorry. It's hard to rhyme.

I was doing pretty good up until then. I get a freebie. For naked is the way we'll screw, and we'll stay like that until we're through. Just like a babe, I'll suck her tits and give each nipple tiny zits. What? That doesn't sound good.

That would be horrifying. I have a whole lot of potato chip dust all over my lips. Yeah, I'm pestilence, by the way. I don't know if you guys knew that. I'm going to give you tit sores. I'll squeeze her breasts with both my hands, making love to both those great glands. And when I get her legs widespread,

my hungry mouth will give her head. Hungry? You going to eat it? My tongue will linger at her clit, as back and forth my tongue does flit. Her pussy lips I'll suckle too, and she will moan at what I do. Her pussy is where gushes flow.

The candy? Oh, gross. Pussy is where gushes flow. Terrible. It's where my busy tongue must go. I licked those juices with my tongue, and wishing my dick was well hung. Okay.

Lick, lick, regret. Lick, lick, regret. What the hell? I could not, would not with my dick, so now I must go and lick? Her squirming body moves the bed, as I keep giving her cunt head.

Oh, okay. I would really like to fuck her twat, but an erection I've not got. Now is the time to give her my thumb and thrust into her till I'm numb. Her cervix now my thumb has found, and at it now I'll really pound.

Come unto the end here, my Mary does now softly moan, and soon that moan will be a groan. Her dear wet twat will be all mine, yet to cockfucker I will pine. Erectile dysfunction. The last line in all of these is really very somber. It's a wistful poem.

Throbbing does now seize her cunt. I knew she would orgasm hunt. Fuck him. My thrusting thumb does drive in deep as from her twat the juices weep. My thrusting thumb does drive in deep, as from her twat the juices weep.

So, like, weep isn't cry, right? Right, yeah. Yeah, the juices are crying. I've got her off as I planned. Her twat has reached the promised land, and now my mouth must suck that twat to prove to her that I'm besought. Jesus. Big Bob.

But structurally, that's the best poem so far. Yes, that is probably the best poem. This is the poem that shut down the Ren Faire. My name's Big Bob, and while you might be interested in my book of poems with all my other poems that I've written such as I Want a Cock, I Need a Cunt, I Need a

Cunt, I Got Well Fucked, I Do Want Mary, Ode to Tony, Breed Me, Share My Cunt, and I Need a Fuck. He doesn't really explore many thematic... He looks a thousand years old. ...elements, does he?

Well, all that time that he spends not fucking women, he's got to find something else to do, you know? He's just at the computer, he keeps looking at his gigantic thumb, and you think, man, if only I could somehow harness this into pleasing women. All right. Alright, so, Isfahan,

you are Marcus, aka ZenithQuasar77. Hey guys, my name is ZenithQuasar77 and I have a poem. The loneliness of the social networking widower. Aww. Get off that computer.

Go make me a cup of tea. Turn that bloody thing off. I'm on my knees begging please. No chance of a warm embrace. No get out clause just in case. This repartition kills me. No chance of an erection. Oh, hello, friend!

I saw you at the meeting! She's more interested in her avatar and a strong internet connection. I'm in competition with a piece of plastic with a screen. Most days I just give up and prepare to scream. Hi, remember me? Instead of looking at that thing, maybe up and prepare to scream. Hi, remember me? Instead of looking at that thing, maybe you can talk to me.

Yes, I sit on my ass, absorbing calories. That's collories. But at least I never lose my signal or run out of bataries. So he rhymed calories with bataries. You probably know the spell better if you spent more time at the computer, bro. Well, somebody's on it. I'm married to this Facebooking fiddler, and so it must remain the loneliness of the social networking widower.

Okay. Marcus, you have two poems. Well Well you have more than two poems Specifically we're going to feature two poems This is another poem that you've written Just wanted you to share it with us If you would please What the hell was that It's a serious subject

I like the exclamation point. Hello, I am ZQuasar77 and I have a new poem. What's it called? Rihanna is a dick slap. So we've got our header to submit to the website, right?

I've got to stop looking at that line. I've got to look at the next line now. It's a dick slap! Anyway, the aforementioned poem, which if I read again I would laugh. Right. Beware the girl from Barbados. Don't stand too near. Her germs are highly contagious.

Barbados contagious, sure. You see it. Every year, a new album. Every week, a new single. Listening to your crap gives me the shingles. What? I need a name for the shingles. Nutritious deficiency

because of listening to music. Every song is the same about how you sucked record exec off in an alleyway. Call me rude, boy, boy, I sucked a record exec off in an alleyway. You claim you're a good girl gone bad. I claim you're a bad girl gone sad. Oh, I take that, you stupid dick slap. It's not my fault if your music is tiresome. It kind of sucks.

Off is the direction I wish you to fuck. Beautiful. Perfect. Flawless. A+. I'd rather get wet than get under your umbrella, Zebicola. I'd rather eat a sandwich contaminated with salmonella. Yuck. Oh my god. You claim that everybody out of your league.

That was a little harsh. But I got something to say a little harsher. Next time you see Chris Brown, make sure he hits you a little harder. So extreme! I'm edgy. Yeah, Zenith Quasar makes his money by being a writer on Tosh.0. I was the new family guy. Oh, that works too, yeah.

Yeah, I went there. Sick and tired of this R&B death trap. Somebody should remind her that you-know-who is a dick slap. It's less funny when it's two words. Okay, last... So, Rihanna, guess who I saw? Marcus. You know, ZenithQuasar77.

He wanted me to remind you that you're a dick slap. He's actually standing behind him. That's right! I'm glad that I have such an open relationship with my fans. Wait, there's a section specifically for drugs. Well, look for them.

And then while I give Adam this poem. Okay. What's this poem called? Well, hold on. First of all, what's your name? I have to answer this question whether or not I'm 18 years old because there's an extreme content warning. Sure.

I am, Avery. Okay, good. So the name of this poem is called Shit. What's your name? Oh. My name is Raven Blackwood. A.K.A. A.K.A.

Thy Morbid Mistreful. A.K.A. A.K.A. Thigh-morbid mistress. Sure, yeah. I'm sorry, your poem was called what again? My poem was called Shit. That's prophetic. Spitty think ill spit. Spit on you. You suck all the feelings you had none.

I want to kill you so bad, I want to rip the life out of you with my bare hands, period. I used to sit by and pray you, Yod, Calm, join me, but now I'm the one joining you, joining you in death. You feel burned yet? Are you burned? Yeah. I love the sight of your blood. It's so cold and black.

It hungers me for more. What? I want to kill you right here, right now. Oh, dear. But I want you to suffer. If just begun, bitch. Super bitch. You shit cunt.

Fuck you. You all think it's all funny. Fuck you. You all think it's funny. You're right, I do think it's funny. So now, to get on with my speech. Wait, you mean poem? Yeah. No, this mean poem? Yeah.

This was for speech class. So now to get on with my speech, I wrought this just for you one. I loved you. Now, now you disgust me. I hope you suffer with what I'm doing. You tell me to stop, but my sweet bloody victim, I've just begun. Oh, you've just begun.

So this poem's gonna be going on for a while longer. So to continue my speech. Die. Die. Die. Die. I hope the next horror you acutely love.

Cause my expiry date is expired. Alright. Expiry date. of. Cause my expiry date is expired. Huh. Oh, alright. Expiry date. So now I'm left with my rage. Oh, I'm ragging. You fucking shit cunt.

You're a piece of shit. You're a piece. Piece. Piece of shit. Piece. That was terrific. That was good. And there's a great

first comment down there if anybody wants to take that. Raw anger displayed in sporadic perfection. Well done. Actually, wait. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Raven Blackwood, aka Thyk.a. Thy Morbid Mistress.

Would you just tell me just a little bit about yourself? Oh, I would love to. Just a little bit about yourself. Well, my username is Thy Morbid Mistress. And my real name is Raven Blackwood. My gender is female. My age is 16. Surprise.

And that makes my birthday the 1st of October, 1996. And my country is Australia. My relationship status is taken. About me, color purple. I am just another person who is trying to get a life. And when I fall, I know my knight in shinning armor will pick me up and carry me away.

But that doesn't change the fact that I'm unimportant, and I'm'm a Gothic Christy Tyon. Uh-huh. I want this to stop. I want it all to stop. The bullying. And all the other shit.

It should just stop. I'm sick of cutting myself. It has no effect anymore. So you all bully can suck a dick. Did you actually think that cutting yourself was like somehow going to stop people from... Hey! Hey, come on! I'm pushing the button that makes you stop that. It did for a while, but it has no effect anymore.

Why do I get shit all the time from you men? You are swine. You think the dick is the answer, but it has no effect anymore. Why do I get shit all the time from you men? You are swine. You think the dick is the answer, but it's not. You really suck at game shows. Sorry, the answer was Antietam. Let me see my dick! Survey said! The battle of my dick!

And you risked how many points? I risked dick Well you're gonna lose that And the rest of your winnings I'm gonna have to dick my way out of this one And I'm afraid I'm gonna have to ask you to turn in that dick too Should I continue? That was a weird skip

So now I sit alone in my dark room with morbid music like Kitty, Marilyn Manson, Bullet for My Valentine, Slipknot, Cradle of Filth, Motionless and White, Witness Day 13, Paramore, Linkin Park, Glean Day, Blink-182, Limp Bizkit, Evanescence. I really, really love Kitty. I live by that band. And I really, really love the song People Equal Shit by Slipknot. And I love the Move cartoon, Nightmare Before Christmas, and my fab time of year is Halloween.

I like how well-rounded you are. Just going down the checklist. I want a gimmick. Oh, the font and typeface have changed, so I have to use a different voice. I'm used to screaming myself to sleep and having nightmares. And when normal people are happy, my version of being happy is being depressed. So usually, I love being depressed. And that makes me happy.

So then I have to be... Oh, Jesus. Mobius strip. Yeah. And that makes me happy. So then I have to be... Oh, Jesus. Mobius strip. Yeah. It helps me get attention just by having emotions. But at the moment, I'm a bit more depressed than usual. That's good. And I have been dreaming about my diseased friends on NBC.

That's capitalized. Rest in pee, Calam and Zeke. Oh, and I'm dyslexic, so excuse my spelling errors. I'm not that smart. Hey, you guys! Who made me read spelling errors from a dyslexic?

You guys tricked me. It's okay to misspell stuff if you just say you're dyslexic. It's like a free pass. Oh my god. Okay, um, poor text. Hippo love. My new favorite poem ever. This is really good.

Hippo love. Alright. This is an upbeat poem. This is an upbeat poem. Get yourself some hippo love. Hippo love. I want to punch a hippo right there in the face. He won't even feel it, but I'd feel fucking ace. Yeah!

Yeah! That was good. Thank you. I bet that person doesn't listen to Kitty. Well, so I'm looking through this, guys. I think everybody gets a... Holy shit. Well, so I'm looking through this, guys. And Buzzard found an awesome one. I think everybody gets a... Holy shit.

Grr, too. I think we found the Hans von Hosell poetry. Can I have that one? Because, Adam, I wanted to give you this one. Yeah, of course you can. I wanted to give you the butter chaff effect. Oh, shit. Another poem by Nevsky Paza.

The butter chav effect. On the train, not thinking about weed. Four travs get on talking about weed. Oh, man! Of all the luck! Yeah. Looking at the reflection in the window. Reach for phone.

Start talking about weed. 30 minutes. Wicked. On the train. Thinking. About. Weed. Yes!

These Batman movies are getting weird. Way to go, shitty Bukowski. The adventures of young Charles Bukowski. Get the fuck off the couch. Please read Gertrude. What? Oh, yeah, yeah. I'm sorry. I was going to say, yeah,. Please read Grr 2. What? Oh, yeah, yeah.

I'm sorry. I was going to say, yeah, I want Grr 2. All right, this is another poem by Nevsky Paza. This one's called Grr the Second. You're nothing but a parasite. Ha ha ha, sucking vampire. Actually, it's pronounced Arkansas! Slurp, slurp! Tastes good, does it?

What the hell? I see you! Savorin' the taste of another petty little triumph. You win again, but you always win. You're the only one playin'. What?

Yeah. I'm not going to dilute the impact of the poem by explaining it, but yeah, that's pretty good. It sounds like somebody corrected his pronunciation at a Trivial Pursuit game or something. I'm gonna write a poem about this. Grr. Oh, I already have one named Grr.

Grr 2. I'm chronicling my anger in several volumes Okay, okay, okay Well, he does Here's his one And the title of it It's probably the title for the episode Called Drowning in a Bucket of Words Oh my god, that totally is the title

Yeah Drowning in a bucket of words. Oh my god, that totally is a title. Yeah. Okay. Wow, that is... That is pointless. Where the fuck were we? I don't even know anymore. Stog should do it. All right.

I should. Stog. Stog. What's your name? My name is ZenithQuasar77, a.k.a. Marcus. He came back. He came back around. I think we had him earlier.

Anyway, I have something important to say, and it's about music. What's that? I wrote a poem. It's called Chris Martin is Cocked. Okay. Yes, you read this, right? Chris Martin is a cock. He writes shite disguised as classic rock.

Nice. Every teardrop is a waterfall? More like every track is a travesty. A complete and total bore. That gore on the senses and destroy your soul. Gore on the senses? You pretentious twat!

What? You talk utter bollocks, and you sing utter crap. So you wrote another shit-stained masterpiece. Another revolving blot on the turntable. The sound of

your voice grates as the noise starts to vibrate. Thoughts turn to violence, homicide, and hate. I'm gonna rhyme this part. I'm done. Your attitude's a platitude. Your ego should be illegal. I think cold gay are boring.

Damn. Please don't release another single. It'll gives you fair trade. I'll give you a high-grade kicking. I think the title of this poem is truly fitting. What's a high-grade kicking? Does the USDA put a stamp on it? I think it has to do with, like, the angle.

Like, it's a high-grade angle of the kick, starting from the impact point. Over 30 degrees and you tip over while kicking. At the end of this ditty, there is nothing left to say. If you hate music, love Coldplay. Chris Martin is a cock. Fact! Mic drop. I like that two lines

before the end, he had an ending, and then he was like, Fuck him! Just hates him that much. Hello, my name is Marcus, aka ZenithQuasar77. Well, fuck me for having an opinion.

Okay, here's my poem. I think pop music is awful. I think beer tastes like piss. I think football's rubbish. I cheer when they miss. They miss what? Sorry, okay. I prefer winter to summer.

Night to day. I don't want another. No matter what you say. I prefer whiskey to water. Eggs to cheese. I think E.L. James is a shit author. I don't watch telly. I prefer to read.

I prefer fiction to fact. Rock to rap. Empty cupboards to piles of crap. I think if you read a poem, it's polite to comment. Just a short note. Not an essay or a sonnet. Ouch.

This is my rock. My dominion. You don't agree? Fuck me for having an opinion! This is from the collection Reasons I'm Tedious Small Talk. Family sleep read part of Swirlballs or all of it.

Alright, alright, alright. Two Swirlballs. Alright, so who am I? Okay, I'm the other headmate of ZenithQuasar77. And guys, I got a problem. What's the problem?

Well, number one, I'm a shitty poet. Number two, sore balls. Sore balls sounds hard. Yeah. Write a poem about it. Yeah. Fall to the floor. These balls are sore.

I pain the defies description. I'm going to need a doctor and a medical prescription. Are there ridges and bumps? No, there are ridges and bumps. Humps but no lumps. So why are my balls sore? What?

Philosophers have often asked the eternal question. Ridges and bumps. Humps but no lumps. Stabbed by imaginary ants. Philosophers have often asked the eternal question, Why are my balls sore? Stabbed by imaginary ants, like two planets colliding in a pair of pants. I can take solace that there are no lumps on my bollocks, so why are my balls sore? That there are no lumps on my bollocks.

So why are my balls sore? Pain in my knackers are driving me crackers. It's like my gonads have died and gone to heaven. It's like the end of days in Armageddon. I should have gone to a doctor. Should have let him check. But there is something about a male doctor cradling your balls and scratching his head.

My balls hurt like crazy, but I don't want to get any of that gay shit. So why are my balls sore? So, Marcus, you're going to have to turn and cough no homo. It's making me think of the state. I want to dip my sore balls in it.

These sore balls have affected my peace and zen. I will check them regularly. Illinois never makes the same mistake again. Illinois never makes the same mistake again. Illinois never makes the same mistake again. State motto. Illinois, why are my balls sore? Don't make the same mistake twice. Illinois, our balls aren't sore.

The mistake of having sore balls. I really messed up when I had sore balls. His balls turned into the entire state of Illinois. Alright, I think I want to close then with the one previously alluded to.

There we go. Lost Verses from the Cypher Sickness. And that is for whoever wants it. I'll read it. Alright. Holy moly. I paid my feeds and now your souls will bleed.

The sins of lust and greed feeding my enemies their broken dreams. A helpless seed of consequences creed. I read your conscious and find that it's full of mindless nonsense.

I'm the vessel of an extraterrestrial prophet with a pharmaceutical nose leaking bomb spit supreme of bomb shit. Deoxys get hooked Cybertron metal gauntlets with rifle arms.

I got my plasma cannons drawn, crushing de-formatted star clusters within my palms. My devil mind is an humanoid alien ant farm built around the nucleus of a mega-computer that launches subatomic rockets walking around with a pocket full of loud and lucky charms. One day,

believing I'll be wiping women as bad as Courtney Starnes, until then, my life goes on in the barren desserts of Mars. Jacking off on top of a flying car. There's a planet inside of the planet. Living there is a gigantic army of reptilian bandits ready to

brandish to the surface and cause havoc throughout the masses. Passion turns to pain. Acid burns the rain. How can you escape when you're chained to the bottom of a frozen lake? My gravity will rip you out from your shape

and mince your brains into stakes for all of the hate that you humans create. December 21 is the final date before the Earth starts to shake and eradicate the United States, bleeding river streams in misery.

Evil cathedral symphonies. I'm a fire-breathing dragon that crystal breathes making mistlets bleed. I'll crush the soul of an MC to smithereens for fun. Shake your hand and pass you a tissue after I'm done. I'm the force that keeps the planet spinning around the sun. Been roaming this galaxy

since most humans were young. The enlightened one of the seventh ray in my heaven days, I used to devil slay before I fell from grace. Now I've become a full metal rebellion through space, slipping through the stargates without a sound or trace. I'm of the astronomical race, you fucking apes. I'm a killer clown that goes around flipping towns upside down,

bound by the approaching sounds of hellhounds pouncing against the ground. I bust rounds with a rifle of creative now psycho alpha schizo alien exosiris. Psychoviral sickos, we the flyest helter-skelter delta pirates around my Uncle Poseidon. Exhaled my legacy in the lightning with the power of his trident, he changed the climate to psychic. The Ice King stole my razor, so I knifed his wife and ate his

neighbors on the day I became a traitor. Ice skating inside the ring of Saturn's chambers, rolling papers with Avatar Aang and spacing vaders. The infamous Buster Blader that defeated Lord Darth Vader, wielding the black slight saber and absorbed his data. I work lyrical graveyard shifts, forcing grips with the strongest

Siths, turning the entire Empire's triumphs into myths. During the struggle of Shomei's eclipse, an Egyptian princess bitch sucked my dick. Then describes how it tasted in the ancient hieroglyphs. I'm a viscous rapper, catapulted from the darkest matter. Enlightened master

crafter mentioned in the forbidden Masonic chapters more venomous than the cobra that bit the tits off Cleopatra. Me and Freddy Fracture walked in patterns until we seen the top of Hedon's ladder and became spiritual trisyllable metalirical blasters after the laughter for the rain in the top of heaven's ladder and became spiritual trisyllable metalyrical blasters after the laughter for the rain in the form of rain.

Torn mundane from where I came, I watched the tiger as it raped the crane. I've been dungeon-trained in the midst of desolation as a single grain grows insane, a fallen angel mangled in chains for a strangling cocky cosmic militants. My heart pumps ritalin adrenaline and I piss stings and smells like penicillin.

My soul is a dry and withered root and perpetually whistles like a flute. Root like the true blue storm troops that shoot at groups of su-woops. Mentally awkwaken guru Buddha drifting while spitting eternal dead boy Anubis wisdom. I met a bad bitch on tagged and she told me she would gag for my swag

so I laughed and let her pass cause her ass was like a bag of trash. In the aftermath I am totally smashed was like a bag of trash. In the aftermath, I'm totally smashed from smoking a mountain of magic grass. Mixed with the hash twist in the fattest cabbage zags. From the heavens I crash, look beyond my mask. I'm a motherfucking weirdo spaz.

Fuck you, fags. Fuck you, fags! F-plus poet laureate. Holy crap. That was awesome I wonder how many lines of cocaine it took to write this poem That was so like The weirdest spam email I'd ever read

It was all of that to get through the spam filter Yeah Scott I'm gonna songify that thing Oh that's a really good idea. Scott Evanflow says, Very postmodern, and in its dark ancient Africa of this world's days. Love the rhythm on this one.

Very cool, man. I mean, hey, you put enough autotune on it, you could probably get it out as a single. That sure was a lot of words! With every word being it's in title case, so

is this the title of Fiona Apple's new album. And there we go. Around about an hour of people that will probably be poet laureates at some point. I mean, you know, eventually. You know, maybe depending on how the political process goes. Or maybe, you know, somebody will recognize them for their greatness. Portex, what did you learn this week? I learned that some people think they know how to write poetry, and they don't.

There's really nothing else to learn, is there? Stoggs, you've written and read a fair amount of poetry. What did you learn from this episode? I learned that I have a better opinion in my own poetry than I think. That's good. That's good. Always nice to kind of do that to boost your confidence a little bit. Because if you read enough of this shit, you'll feel like you can do anything.

Yeah, it's a weird thing because, you know, you go through the comments and obviously, you know, it's just, I mean, in place of every poem that you read on these sites, it could basically just be a neon sign that says, like, please say nice things to me because that is what I constantly hunger for. Please look at my complete black training and tell me I'm a fucking wizard, a wizard of the word. And so there's this cycle of, like, positive feedback that just people constantly have to compliment each other. And that shouldn't, you know, no.

Spend some work. Take some time. Learn to take criticism. Or don't. Or don't do it at all. Or, you know what, actually, now that I think of it, keep writing. Yeah, keep writing. Because we're going to do another one of these episodes.

This fucking shit was awesome. Yeah. The website, as always, thefpl.us. You should come. You should leave your comments. That's all. Yeah, do that. You should bring your poetry for me to criticize.

That's a terrible idea. All right. See you next week. See you. Bye-bye. Bye-bye. Bye-bye. I found that yes, I'm a friend. It's what I'm in for.

I knew I'd get what I asked for. Loony 777. Oh, there's tons by this guy. Threatening a collection. Well, there's also I touched her pussy. My anger is, fuck you. Oh, and there's a poem for my haters. Oh my god!

All I want is the sun to shine on me for eternality. Till that day will come, I will be built up with so much, so pain. Written by Looney777! Hack, hack!