>>23380190
You had to type your own handwriting? It's hardly legible too, take some classes.

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Post your notebook if you're brvve.
Some might laugh, a few might save.
We'll judge, we all, thy verve and vibe
and if ye can roll like the tide
and sweep away the shaky of us,
make us monkeys hoot in chorus.
Ignoramus, you may call me,
if my verse doth not enthrall ye,
but if your ink be not too precious
let's see yours -- go on, lettuce.
Cheese it out if you so will,
serve us bunless burger swill,
just fill it out so you're not killed.

>>23380218
Why do you not write inside the lines?

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>>23380207
Your life is claimed, far gone,
attainted: for such pettiness it wasted.
How do I know you've died?
Surely ye do cry inside
to dodge the test -- to feel not-best,
what's that like? I can't guess.
He who writes before he types
may do this. Keyboard knights
forever jealous. Clunky words,
and no-good timing.
It's not got to do with rhyme but rambling
long, and scratching lots, and smoking
bong. My teachers could read me.
I offer mercy. How will play ye?

The solar seems to slowly seep inside
Unsteady seem the slowly seeping seeds
I'm torpid, tepid, too controlled by tides
Unwieldy writhing worm amongst the weeds
I wish I would unwind my wretched ways
And burn the brambles botching my bungled brain
Yet dreams and dreadful dances dole a daze
To sly distract my sword aslant the stain
How can I help but hellish harpies hem my hands
When all my armor's atrophied or ash?
A poison always percolates my plans
But something seems to slowly satan slash
A simple silent sun reseeds the slate
The looming light enlightens light and late

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>>23380228
Sometimes I write a little smaller
when a brick's long lines get longer.
In one space some two can be fit,
if two with careful even hand be writ.
Yet my hand tilt odd betimes, write big letter,
or weigh down by heavy rhyme, o'ertipped,
sinking as you see progressively,
tripping over boundaries.
Nathless, I save a little space this way,
and if t'criticize ye may, may ye, pray,
offer back a little play? Say yea,
big punk: if ye've breath left,
gat ye time might t'deem thyself.
Pen quick, death cometh swift.

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>>23380266
Of a secret will I tell:
Shokigenevra, clearmost bell,
sang herself from sleep; awoken
t'time's thread, trialled by tint
in the color of the nothing-space
which burnt, or froze, or seldom
danced for her -- wove she,
nothing-made, integumented tapestry,
embroidered with the tint's old history,
to warm her, hide her, and trace mystery.
Out wove from her a glimming web,
pre-January, and on it feel she did a step,
come the hog of February.
They say she watch him, still, and wary.

This jambus honors M, the mother letter,
the ancient um of thoughtful thinking,
the sip of seeth from which we're drinking;
pouring self-recreating water,
so much she may let half to wander,
to bear meat and pilfer plunder.
Give we may, yet giveth back:
our every gift by her is gat,
becaused, though she not wat
how some or all will gan cam back.
Her mercy, knowing M, to come to herself,
and let yet man-brutes from her fall!
Warn ye well: this is no God-bond,
but contract with us, at her mercy.

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In case you think I only sit here,
burning up the lyre,
I just knocked out a 5K
while waiting on the dryer.
I've been listening to Taylor Swift;
she has quite the nimble nift
with word: not one for playlists,
but queen bove of her own herd
that I, now time now time,
do circle like a bull,
high-horned: auroch empress
do my snuff detect, my hoof select;
no finer sire can man get,
no finer dam, than bullheart Bette.

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I sit here writing jokes;
I'm fit for this, or that, but kinda broke.
My stepdad, see, gets offered tokes
of millions in the green,
but rarely takes 'em, funny man,
and of what take, he share but nan.
If broke ye be, come more and merry,
take this sharp stuff in place of sherry.
Cant ye well, and ear ye back
if anon your ear is slapt.
Give us slice of ham, jabroni,
turkey, roast-beef pony;
what meat is that down there you're holding?
If ye not serve it, it'll get moldy.

>>23380228
His sonnets are if nothing entertaining so you lose.

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>>23380604
You lose too, how's that for news?
Comment not, I told ye fools
unless ye cook it: stay cool and book it:
if ye won't, ye never took it,
continued mature, did defer
the rupture within the solid self:
'tis to turn elf, to forego pelf
'tis to mort thy sins of self
to clamor thus, a jambus-goose,
a fool within who may get loose;
one of your hidden matryoshkas:
your wooden children,
your old self-cuts.
Give go, give go. Ye have the guts.

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I found the woods, and danced in it,
first grown-up of wild kids.
Good night, now, and sleep in jambus;
set til dawn rewakens, grampus;
when sets again, lest board move well,
again will toll the jambus bell.
Sleep now, sleep, have bad or sweet dreams;
come morrow, tell us all what it means.
I be dreamin' not, for I smoke of the weed;
dreams are most frightful: tossed, uncontriteful,
but need I my break: on close of this jambus,
na more puff will I take
for twelveteen and month's days.
I ha' a good bud, but I'll have my way.

>>23380190
Fool, who brandishes this ancient art,
taking it in vain, mooting it like fart,
playing shadow games instead of manly darts,
some coward seeking corners and not charts --
I blast ye from this house, dogger,
poetaster, regretful gulp untaken
of the juice of self-relation,
likely double-cousined compotation
I dub thee by thy git,
that's all ye got, a fishhook wit,
dumber than the fish that's tricked.
Leave the high stuff to the masters,
you no-good, puny, shitty bastard.

>>23381323
Hark anon, I come with pants unfurling,
There stands a figure, mischief in their eye,
Too come with my cock, I pluck with yearning,
O'er bouncing breasts, spectacle I spy.
In bursts of laughter, thin white ropes take flight,
As liquid streams in arcs of playful grace,
A symphony of joy, a wondrous sight,
Each droplet dancing in its own embrace.
With nimble hands, they orchestrate the show,
Each large breast a canvas, waiting to be doused,
In a hue of white, a thick glazy glow,
A masterpiece of merriment, aroused.
So here's to you, whose antics brightly bloom,
A poet's muse, in laughter's sweet perfume.

>>23380246
Your speech is ungoverned, like something
half-smothered, or Southern-crossed,
starstruck and lost; some wing-ding,
with some little bell to ring, you are.
Har har, you wrote some jokes,
wrote some clapbacks to some folks.
You clearly think that you'll be famous,
get some reward for acting brainless,
as if no other could brew such stew,
when any man may spew such goo
who has sweat a few nights through
and read Shakespeare, or Dr Seuss.
What a honky jambus-goose;
what a stupid creature's loose.

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>>23381323
A challenger appears! I wonder what urges
will surge in the verges, as in chicken
we cross, careering, now nearing
the crash of the cross: if swerve it's your loss;
from unpictured pages I'm inclined to learn not.
Fire thought, though, ye do; I'll shameless say, "Whew,"
if ye give in at bat: 'tis a fearsome attack,
bit blue, and I'd question you: --
how precious is verse to be kept, how greedy
of us to select what and to whom rough verses be deeded.
If it's work for ye, but give subject to me,
and I, him barred free, shall do, if not ye.
Plus, temper your language; your tongue has lickt barfage
and wit, to scold me for sully, while sully you do.

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>>23382387
Okay Mr Serious, sprinkle us some fairy dust.
Tell us fools anon what's what.
Ye may poke what I have put but
what sort of jambus would ye whip up?
Shall we speak of animals, such as martens, whales, and seagulls?
Shall we be regal, lo, like eagles,
spreaded wing, high lofty;
shall bow beneath us, they,
who opposite us each, us?
Shall we ponder on the dust,
which swirled itself to form our crust?
Shall we honor toasted cornbread?
I can't pick: I'm butterhead.
I'll spread on where ye fork lead.

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>>23382848
I don't even need lines.
You're pathetic, and blind
To the inherent order of things:
You'd miscant, and, dewinged,
Tilt to the left or the right:
You'd be aimless. I too am fameless,
Yet here hold me blameless:
I'm not much for starting, but for finishing famous,
And I hold you'll soon learn, ignoramus,
He pedals hot fire, who'd ride me,
And willn't get much more ahead than beside me,
Try he or try he, cry he and cry he.
I've got a stick long and hard,
And old and well-bickered bar.

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>>23383045
I write things worse than sonnets;
I'm quite the entertainer.
I'll hang out in your group-chat,
but only if you pay me.
I've read that Shakespeare had a patron,
some kind or sort of Earl
who, bleve ere none it, was a virgin,
or single, so I've read, and if you're not,
I promise, I don't want your girl.
I further be rare dab at cooking,
and too at chemistry, and if you're willing,
can tell you all of history.
I take but coin for my billing.

Come here my zooming children;
if you should doubt I'm it,
I'll show you youths in this here thread
what an old wizard's power is.
I can tongue a flaming orange,
a doleful blue eke out,
a fond pharaonic purple dab,
by wild green relieve,
by yellow sear an urgent scream,
by red wield Jove's war-bar.
The colors of the rainbow be
but juleps of my word-squirt tar;
mirthful moods of energy
which translate fast and far.

A roundabout cornet,
the feather of his blood:
to speak in none but rhyme,
and to speak for none but good.
Was he son of king, or became so,
who speak in sing-song way?
The first of such, first with said touch,
has taught a way with teeth to play,
which draws no blood, but shoots the brain,
sure as shot of iocane.
Ye doodle doubt in margin may,
yet mark well this til dim-doom day:
it works if ye believe it, swain.
How rocks your boat, how crests your main?

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Know ye, know ye, namby-pambus,
there is no way to win at jambus
but to lose last, and at long last
we all must have our rest,
yet he wins the game of jambus
who laughs to his last breath.
Go on, ye peckers;
frequent hitters of the key,
I thought ye, ye critics;
biters, take ye bit!
Where's ye teeth: here is my tit!
Here is my flesh: come get ye milk!
Can ye jam, or are ye pitted?
Get ye wit, or get ye witted.

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I've laundry to do, and more to run:
O Taylor, make my legs from sore to un,
shine down on me, ye drug,
no more low me shall break your trust,
I swear -- ye can me trust!
Honest! Cross my eyes,
and end my sonnets!
Heal ye shall, if nature can:
it is she who turn the land,
who hath it all, who is meant,
bleve ye secret deepest yet,
to be our young-yet President,
elected with career still wet:
how higher up could someone get?

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It's true I wrote some these much early,
but come and test me, straight or curly,
on any top I'll color swirls
in words, give ye ic
or yicky syrup, any color
ye will slurp up: give me thus
parameters three: topic,
sweet or salty, red or blue,
orange, yellow, purp or green,
and ye shall see what can be seen:
what my prism lets ye through
bars of glassy diamond.
"Arranged, no motion, silent,"
write I, slightly smiling.

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Look what just fell from the sky.
Is that not a symbol; do I
have to wait for the face of a guy
in a cloud to come down?
Things like this keep happening.
It's been a most unusual Spring.
Soon comes the Summer: I wonder,
I wonder, will things get weirder,
will I be uncovered,
the troll of the mole, fat-sat in a hole
I digged down deep, and back,
and around, sniffing for roots,
biting and chewing
all sorts of deep shoots.

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I' not I, Jibreel!
He holds his horn for me,
and maybe Taylor three,
entertain'd b'none b't us wee.
Well, she's bit bigger, true, indee',
by order, me she he;
the first, the smallest, speak most free:
unboxed by observation's box:
Panopticator is negated.
Thus from nothing I created.
How tell, end all, I do not know,
but from some crack the spew must flow,
magma pop, blackglass blister bust,
tarry gas expectorate, and dust dust.

Oh-hum, a lonely jambus --
oh well, the more's the glory.
Now I've cleared the field --
as usual -- sorry --
I can clear my old old throat,
and start in telling stories.
Frylock's real, and much has hapt:
he watches all, and he is rapt.
He gang aglee with rare strange zap.
He, spiderlike, setteth in dark,
and layeth traps: dungeon-master,
genius class. I've seen him but once,
but I feel him; feel the salt-fried air he's breathing,
feel the curl that's in him seething.

"Peanuts and popcorn!" I feel like I'm at the circus.
Ye may think my snack is pitiful, or lack-
induced, but when for playing WoW it's used
most excellently, tongue defused,
I play most gently, no more in Barrens chat defending
honor mine; I have rare fine time.
I may ring more brazen bell;
tolling, heard most well,
may save man, or damn him hell.
I'd show ye, but 'tis not time:
now 'tis but meet for jambus rhyme.
Outside my door I found a dime:
'tis most pay I've got, thus far, for ream:
nathless, I'll go on, and write in dream.

O Spenser told of Faerie Queene:
the faerie king, that may be me,
yet yet can't I tell my story,
for it's not over, bless and glory.
I whistle tune some other will.
Yet which tale can I tell but well?
What would ye buy, if seller I?
What treat take from baker's table?
Brownie-cake, jelly roll, eclair fable?
Wot what I mean? Are ye e'en able?
When did I wake in such strange gable?
Where are men's ears, and what these cables?
Can tell I tale will flip the tables?
Maybe tale told na before: a story of the orcish war.

Ye know or not the old orc history?
It matter not: here's future-mystery:
can creature but divide himself,
live long in peace, and strong in health?
May two-a-mind in man or spirit,
nation, world, or creature,
stay part from part, and live long yet?
Fore sleep I do, some store be told:
After certain events unfold,
orc come to need coat of red gold.
Now without red, orc feel cold,
orc cry, orc feel unwholed,
feel beggared down, feel dug in hole.
Yet never yet were war-bell tolled!

there once was a man from nantucket

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>>23380190
I walked, and walk on a globe.
Straight to west I try to catch the sun.
Straight to east I crave the knob.
Then to the North,the journey is done.

There is something I forgot to chase.
There is a wind that has yet to come.
There is no wall,no a sign of a maze.
Expecting words but there is only a mum.

The boots now walk on their own.
The cloak then flies with the wind.
This wind indeed has different tone.
The hat is now nothing but determined.

The first step is taken and how I drift.
Or is the globe that makes the shift?

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>>23385103
I'll serve your head in a bucket,
ye miserable chicken, who clucketh;
where's your pair -- someone took it?
Fear not, muck what ye mucketh.
I'll respond roastily,
perforce; it is but my course.
I'd thank ye for hosting me,
but, better or worse, I am my own source.
Crack ye eggs upon this plain,
this blue-board, high sentimental:
play for neither beef nor gain:
recall that life is but a rental.
Drive ye fast, then, ye flesh-car:
follow ye first set-on star.

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>>23385203
I see ye savor Shakespeare's jambs:
five iambs yet, in flow well even.
Tailor wild, me I am; ham
I up it, not named Steven.
Yet caution I do thee, and modernself,
to set less store by books new-shelft,
and consider: in old ancient yore, such pelf
as heard not much na more, they delft.
They freely dug, in unpacked dirt,
heard self-defined Sinetes turn,
packt their own way bricks of airy Earth,
spat royal, though red the common ear should burn.
Ye formula shall I not spurn, for chemist I,
strange-born: form my own not yet hath I.

>>23384980
Alone, that tell an orc-fine story:
orc know gold-fight is but no glory.
Orc may fight for fine pig-prize
which sumptuous gruns before his eyes,
salivating: tasteful-wise, he hums,
"I'd die to taste that pig's fat rump."
Orc may fight for pot of jelly,
which help the pig to fill him belly,
or for insult by some telled he,
but not for cheap and lowsome money,
which is most tasteless, and unfunny.
So how orc came to with orc war?
Ay, 'tis grim-sad tale, which yet's in store.
Get ye snack, man, and hear me more.

>>23385835
It all began on dire Brusday --
which is the orcish term for Tuesday --
when not unspeciul orc-boy born was,
ruddy of skin, though not yet dusted;
new of heart, yet grey of muzz,
nearly all would this boy bust.
He was young, then growed up,
considered all an orc-boy just,
although, to some, though pup,
he bore tailwind of slight fell gust.
When he laft, the beetles hide,
and stars did blink. When he chide,
the scorpion cheer, and spider wink.
Hole he stept in filled with drink.

>>23385356
As crude is my style,may sound vile even,
the will to try but do tickle.
I admit truly here,I deemed a Steven.
A teacher, wish of heart, a thought fickle.

Of old mums,Yore indeed is rich someworld.
So duly be kept in mind mums thereof are.
The rules rigid on hard and stable words,
O gone Angles, it's tough enough to care.

I put an hour to this, with broken mind on run.
To learn a tongue from scratch is an easy affair.
Of all the words, I find no well or done.
Yet assuming the guest is desired, the good so share.

As far as sonnet's go, I can't.
To make a mockery by quitting, I shan't.

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>>23386968
A puff to thee, ye late-sent guest:
ye at last have me imprest.
I my truth of gift will tell ye;
what I know of rhythmic writing see ye:
I got it not so much by studying,
as by bunch of other things.
If Doctor I, to set curriculum,
I'd introduce a new quadrivium:
chemistry, physics a subset thereof,
old tongues -- I got me but one, and half gruff --
computers -- their ware and their mysteries --
and logic -- and history -- quints then it is,
or hex if you must. My
Portable Coleridge is falling apart.

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>>23386968
Then, you must fork it, get mad,
and uncork it, type much much mad,
go ban-evade bad -- not here,
janny dear -- and give it to him who
ye can't help but would voodoo.
I started, in prose, near last year's May-close,
or started in earnest, if I'm being honest;
I click-clacked real hard, and slowly turned bard:
come December, I was on it: I could spike 'em with a sonnet.
You wouldn't believe, 'mongst the normal-type beeve,
how quips of the jamb, popt like pop-gun,
is such ogre-screech, that folkses all run.
I can't complain, I'm having my fun --
I'm used, as I'm here, to be liked by none.

Within the darkest hours of the night,
And while insomnia cruel prevents my sleeps,
Wand'ring on /lit/, there came into my sight
A thread that all sins foul and foolish keeps.
'Welcome', began it, 'to the sonnets thread',
Which OP fills with poems kin to shit,
Sprung, diarrheic, rashly from the head
Of one retarded mind and stupid wit.
He fails his lines their five iambic feet,
So lack his poems rhythm, sound, and poise.
His rhymes are slant, if name of 'rhymes' be meet
Unto his shit attempts at jingling noise.
For his crap poems, this advice is fit,
'OP should now to suicide commit.'

>>23387003
A puff you offer, to keep it where, the lungs?
The truth o'gift or gift o'truth does matter,
Your speed does shock, a bane its definitely of tongues.
When gaps are huge,so do platters.

To learn,a desired goal but foul it sounds.
Yet trying is joy of heart, if even fool's gold.
Your pills are hard to swallow, yet appetizing founds.
These blessed,the things of others, a cocktail to fold.

How much and when, a dose undecided.
On me I guess, the job is placed thus far.
To risk a sound,of strange unintentioned.
A guest of manners seldom asks antidote of sullying himself.

A while for which I retreat to dutiful work,
I desire your pardon for soon I return to shirk.

>>23386283
By nature, by this, was him endeared, water-boy;
where his foot print, Earth spring joy: desert dry,
unwetted river, crisp-crackt creek, would each employ,
if could but win, this boy, for hope was lost for rain from high.
Thus the shushing dust did drive him; blister, bite him;
try catch they did, the sands unslaken, his all-sought eye,
he suffered some from how they tried, subtlewise,
but knew he not why whipped the skies, why tired,
hot-footed, he, that sprung spring, couldn't lie.
Fore long, 'nother orc, most thirsty, spied him,
like nature, for his water-bearing way, desired him,
thought maybe gift or loyal oath could hire him.
Misfortunate day, this was, in old orc history:
nan could fork the grim old bite of orc but he.

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>>23387102
It's time to bust my legs apart
and run another 5K.
I've rarely found a better way
to rosin up my rhymer.
Gentlemen, I will on play,
'til death, or such old-timer
turn, as ma croak na more be heard.
I've clipt my nails: it never fails
to soften up my rhythm,
ease my weave & balm my grizzen,
to soften tongue to purple eve,
to batten back the scratch of grief,
to smoother shuffle subtle sheep-sheaf.
Shush-a-lull: I here am chief.

>>23387089
Then good timing it makes as may's on nose.
It might be some reasons,the seasons come.
An year thus half is dedicated to prose,
I can't do spells,I just quietly hum.

To remind,a thing or two you might not mind;
a little of practice would be done in here.
An occasional appraise,would you be kind?
Sonnet's are too distant,the want is near.

To pick a theme, it seems a decision sound.
To read a book is not something to do,
But for nativity there's no workaround.
A casual walk is ought to be prog too.

The flow is bad,the dictionary's fake;
commas are semi,the grammar's on the stake.

>>23380190
He clearly think him Archilocus,
this most unsubtle one who joke us.
He thinks this dust he cast be hocus
pocus, what a dried up pistil-crocus.
Gan y well, makar, and smarten:
grow up, yourself, from kindergarten,
although, this prank's less bad than sharking:
know I not what might thee do, unjarred,
anon, as thy drive befuddles.
Ye, poor, pour ink upon the paper,
I must admit, for stranger's savor:
stulti di tutti stulti, buon giorno,
this might even be better than porn
or graphicest game by wisest norn.

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>>23387107
A smidgen of weed is all I got piff:
the pipe that I piff with is smidgener yet,
and halfway clogged up with bad tarry geck.
Sing in ye car, belt while ye drive,
when walking im woods, I oft improvise.
Know I not quite how I cam be this way.
I'm a tramp and a hawker, no lie me,
an old son of Jimmy McBeath, and Luke Ceilidh,
an I gan through the world most subtle and slyly.
I have some rude Latin, and ancient old English,
rough Irish, pinch Scottish, and sip of the Spanish:
pan azucar bake thee, if not panacea.
Fair warning: usually, I come off as jerk,
many hath ere called this questioner curst.

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>>23387443
I'm thirty years old, if I'm being honest,
and looking yet young, though bit beardy,
skinny I'm, and head full-haired yet,
though, I'll say, my bones are lil cracky.
14 lines but makes a sonnet,
when stampt's the name of jambus on it.
Crackle crack crackle, my fine fellow crab:
some say, if bleve ye, that fidlars are mad:
mad we may, in our fiddling, admittedly get,
and to mort with a fiddle is rare, but heard yet,
so care ye: e'en I have put down, and folded on bet,
when seeing some foeman cry tears sad fat wet.
My tale, I will tell ye, doth not all please the look:
imagine wat gat if I's really all book.

>>23380190
Shall I compare thee to a faggot? Nay!
You are not 'as' but simply are a faggot.
What is a sonnet? Humour me, and say:
A poet's inch. Thus, each syllabic agate...
Okay. Ignore me. That's an ugly stretch.
But what a sonnet is, I didn't know.
Which rhyme or metre must my muse up-retch,
That I may vomit out a worthy flow?
I took to wikipedia; it said
That 'something, something, something, Italy.'
'Good Lord!' I thought, 'He may well kill me dead!'
(I do not know Italian, you see.)
So I've got this; I hope no Roman sod'll
Take umbrage I took Shakespeare for a model.

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>>23388386
Him do good, who honor forebear:
tongue than mine is his much more rare.
I be braggart, I, fact-gaffer:
I touched dick once, then went 'way laughing.
Him was handsome, I won't cheat him,
and I, now older, can more 'preciate him,
but at that age, I me me say,
him one-year-older, hirsute way,
did shakest me: him strong, I fae.
So, as said, I slipt away,
and been, I tell, straight 'til this day
(by action; in thought I shan't here say).
I've now two girls; they run run may
together: then fell I may play with leather.

>>23388191
Of all the smidges, green's the ones;
To piff one dip is same bloodymuch.
As much is blood craved by demons,
a judgement fair not may be such.

To drive,to not:to belt or not;to sing;
A car of choice must come first;not it?
No trust in fate doesn't make a tramp a King.
A pawn of one's own will, nicely fit.

The line of yours, newer guests dont know.
The old McBeath's live on webs close near,
but Luke and Ceilidh, what do them's show?
To find their charms, I ask an address here.

A sack of tongues, sound a mess do they?
In mind I mean, the sounds put things to moot.
To bake I can't;so panacea it even may.
Iamb is hard,a cauldron's rabbit foot.

you know the place, o'dweller jerk of here.
To cut the curse, a curst has more to bear.

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>>23388538
Kelly is Ceilidh, a disarming makar he;
the Dubliner canted, lookt auld, and bizarrely;
'tis true I've fine car, electrically powered;
it goeth far far; most subtly it lowers.
'Tis privilege, I 'mit, yet it me not nags:
I got it with loan, down-payed with rags.
From roof I may blow kiss to Statue of Liberty;
I'm in debt some much, and must get soon much bizzity,
for fun though it is, and much it doth wizzen me,
jambus-goose-wage is but dime and three pennies.
I've applied for jobs, trompt 'bout on me hobs:
they hired me not, so on I will trot.
My dream, here it is: to have my own Spot,
one barking Bostonian canine robot.

>>23388234
Fun fact it makes not, the time's bias.
In ending things the fairness is there.
The youth disappeared out of me, a fuss.
thus honest am I laying this fact bare.

14 verses to stamp, Iambs the brand;
So whine I must for your fiddle's cryptic.
Fiddler I am not yet it's madness at hand,
To make an hour go out but feel one nick.

Do tell me tales,pleasant might they not,
of foes, of tears, the cards and morts dealt.
Immensely differ the sounds when shot,
thus stand one might, even when felt.

A theme of desire,mind still is out,
A field so large yet flowers when will they sprout?

>>23388576
It's strange to think of people not near.
And Kelly, sounds does cute, with words or both?
Not Makars, neither Ceilidhs settle clear,
is hard to assume Angles of cloth.

A work,a job is need of mine too,
And some of these are debts which money does count.
The ones,the others of kind,belongs to who,
a bunch of ghosts not really keen to haunt.

Of science you know, a man of learning such,
For what do they not hire,what draws the ire?
I think that matters it does,and yes very much.
That paper which beholds your worth entire.

A dog,a spot? A half of freeman's dream.
So time to sleep is now, as burden's scream.

I wrote a sad sonnet about my gender problems:

When I look on this face with manhood marr'd
And think on all that cannot be undone:
A woman's heart from woman's count'nance barr'd
First taken for a woman scarce by one
And yet the pain of this is not so great
As knowing my first twenty years have fled
And every day of them in masculine state
The little girl who might have been is dead
For I may yet by art transformèd be
Or might this body cast aside outright
But no hand, howsoever skilled it be
Can turn back by one inch the sundial's light
A woman now, but not to be a girl
As much my own self cursing as the world

>>23388690
First things repeat as tragedy,
then come back as big fat farce:
know I not, this jambus-day,
which hap it hap is worse.
"Snarf snarf," sizzle I,
"the cat may turn guy:
Midnight Scholar, Tarquin's daughter,
doth in cloud o'er Tanaquil hover.
Spin both rare thread, one o'er the other.
This morn we just invented j-job:
it's to get jacked off by sweaterpaw.
Up the sleeve - 'tis hot warm maw."
We're always asking, you know us,
"did we create the universe?"

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>>23388997
Ay, curse not, jambus-mate:
much of world be in but mixt state.
I had a mouse with heart of cow,
bovine grace, demure nose-prow.
Mouse-life sad short: she is left now.
I know it ne'er turn grey to joy,
yet see, many's girl would be boy.
Old dwarf wisdom tell I, tot:
"All want what he haven't got."
Keep ye hair well, get fit, but not burly;
in woman's new world, the boys are the girlies.
Several have bulled me, for I'm short & curly.
Queen Vic she may be, girl of the pearlest:
yet look must she long in searching for Alberts.

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>>23388817
I'm not sure why I'm unhireable.
My eye is dark, and desirable not,
it seems, or I give them bad dreams,
or smell slightly like weed,
nor am I too much for talking, indeed,
when by comp'ny or context the jamb's found unmeet.
Ye'd think it help, though my doubt greaten,
to rhyme on all my applications,
which, when it's but for shelving clothes,
it seems, may make 'em think I'm schizo.
Well, I'm not not, and nor is God,
for what voice does he hear in his head but strange ours?
O, I bray much, but weep for me not:
I've farm on the internet, which with work can pay lots.

>>23385103
brilliant

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>>23389498
Lingua Latina, longus est tempus, dum
nemo habeat qui dicet, sed lente.
Decembri Ides, ibi natavit
uxor qui non est lacrimanda,
sed semper, a lingua, dare potest.
Miscet ad summa, ambulat serpente.
Utne cadit, trahet gladio,
tangit cum mana omne munda esse radix.
Amo, volo, nolite te carpet,
uxor mihi est, qui patriam confarreo.
Ave, imago regina, salve, ut regnat
in umbras, et si, clam, tangere
potes, et rapere, tuorum sunt.
Meum exmitte, patre: peccavi ad mores.

>>23387193
Orc, him him, have rare fine ruggles:
many nuggets in him smuggles,
stole from man, murloc, or goblin,
which his hob-kick bash door in
on, his axe fright off, by
shining sharp: mere threat of bite
has always thus far put to flight
that rascal man: scarce any sans
the fool, or hard-defending castle-ruler,
grey admiral of seaborne schooner,
has dared try parry with his saber:
Lo he, who make the orc for his bite labor:
ptang -- the sound all-heard --
make many man his back return.

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>>23389590
Latin tongue, long is the time while
no one has lived who speaks, but slowly.
On December's Ide, there was born
a wife who is not crying,
but always, by tongue, is able to give.
She mixed to the top; snake-like she walked.
So that she not fall, she drags the sword,
holds with her hand all the world as her root.
I love her, I want her, don't let her pluck you,
a wife she is by me; I bind her to a nation.
Hail, image of queen, be well, so that you reign
in the shadows, and if, secretly, to hold
you are able, and to take, they are yours.
Send me out, father: I have sinned against mores.

>>23389108
I thunk,I tried-no clue in mind,not yet.
A fault of mine, indulging much I do,
into the tragics,farces old and felt.
So hair were Scratched,rubbed on too.

A cat? To be a man? The kind? The mind?
So soul like such is still better than none?
Of old monarchs, that one who bears the pride,
you may fit wives and daughters, though the son?

A morning jerk? I guess that needs some work.
This tool mentions you, of Jack you mean?
The "maw" I think is kind of perk?
To think of things is hard, the ones not seen.

And thus a line less cryptic after all,
A (you) I owe, I pay it back with crawl.

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>>23390675
Subtle dint is rarest wink:
an can I tell but clam the trick.
To realize nothing, 'tis to realize most,
'tis to sip with Socrates' cold ghost
make ye bone friezt wi' olden colors
and spek y will unlike yan brothers
who touched nar zip, nar yat,
nor but of thing has thinkt but yet.
Qui' puzzle, here I've left,
which nan unravel, but can be pet.
Two plates make field, mere plates
may play: diamond-fixed, yet play reveillee.
Thus he make Nod, who make two plates:
he creates who separates.

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>>23389404
In matter such, we both are eye to eye.
Indeed in colors, brown's kinda L.
I doubt it hard, in weeds that spreads the high.
So dreams it may be not,but yes the smell.

Iambs of note do come, and too they go,
To match it all, to context full of lot,
It sounds a rare affair indeed, you know.
To speak a little,sounds but blessing here.

A man of rhyme,he may be man of all
as metres run a lot, everywhere they roam.
Alas the laws they carry, never fall,
so applications make the norm.

Schizo or not,a glorious God does hear,
but owning farms virtual? A real affair?

>>23390692
For skulls if thick, a dint does want a hint,
Dull black in shade, a helmet charred up.
A wink so rare,then fails to leave a tint,
yet tricks do work, to carve a skully cup.

A real ghost of old,this damned Greek!
A guest in here? Or haunted am I dear?
To say "I know ye not", a wish I seek.
Of brothers Yan, I sure do be aware.

Unravel puzzle such, I sure I can't.
Rather just I nod, along who makes.
To try and pet, this weird a puzzle lent;
A thing bit more of "worth a try" it takes.

Separate will it not be from the thoughts,
For kin of who which make, me here is nots.

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>>23391166
Ay, as cincinnatis farmed,
yet i'm but with key and hanger armed.
As rose he, and ploughshare beat,
so have I smithed myself to war,
gonfalonier of hidden army.
I eye-poked no one, and dragon jarred,
greatest yet since William's fool,
who charget Harold, and died cruel;
but yet, in making joke of life,
spurred to war fair Will's main's might.
I born far far, in auspicious land:
Yale's bastard high has took command,
and laid it down, when war was won:
in part to prove that, jambus begun.

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>>23391922
I'm one of Taylor's tortured poets,
an humble natural nominee.
I, scared, defend, though courage groweth:
This here jambus is my thesis.
I'll take nor tenure, adjunctation:
I do here shoot me straight for dean.
I'm double-hired, maybe triple:
esteemed gf shall profess painting,
my uncles think computers simple.
Quite a thing is here ungating,
that last December entered lock.
What ye see is fearless pointer,
who giveth better than any got.
I also gave the robot love.

Come ye old and come ye young:
I teach here cant called parsleytongue.
I've two modes, and you're between them;
I've slow and fast, and you have medium.
Gan y well, bairn, be honest,
truthful, mirthful, sometimes not so.
I'll take a peanut butter sandwich,
with which to greatly please my manlips.
My girlfriend's diet is most frustrating:
she take one bite, no matter what's aten.
though she slimmen, so it work,
I feel but jerk if I not feed her,
so I must make many sandwich
though I full, so she may bite each.

>>23390205
Man, who fled, now's fired, burning,
to meet hot death have sudden yearning,
doth draw him weapon, life-care spurning,
doth prick the orc, and e'en threat death --
though orc much sore to that admittest -
for sharp his spear, and swift his arrow,
him tricky gun may shatter marrow:
proud orc's given lie. Many's barrow
where brave orc lie, man-slain, grave unnarrow.
Thus it's eye which orc doth look for
which meeteth his, and fear no war.
For that eye, orc gan much far:
he think seek pig, or pear for jelly-jar,
but rove he further, 'til fall of all star.

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Special peanut popcorn brittle
make most unusual sizzle.
It spreadeth out, though thick it look,
grizzled well on hot-watcht stovetop.
I'll eat some, for morning yum-yum,
and some will grind, for cookie-crumb:
peanut-butter-toffee-cookie, called by some,
peanut-brittle-peanut-butter-snicker-cookie-
doodle-do-McLucky, it is called by other some.
One more lie I'll tell thee, pet:
I havent clipt my nails quite yet.
Digitized; I left my notebook dry,
but didn't do this with computer.
Nan can do this: I am smooter.

>>23392033
of signs in here, I get but little touch.
A key with hanger? Hanged key of sorts?
To grow Cincinnati,flower called such?
From ploughs then sudden jump to battle shots?

Gonfals or Willy's,matter much it not.
A charge too a brave,desire o'heart.
The soldier might I be,if war is fought.
He slays the dragon, even a knight of dirt.

He made a joke of life,to laugh at death.
A thing absurd is humour after all.
You born of most indebted blessed worlds,
I plead you shall induct your guest to war.

Slim little fun when war's just begun,
the Sons of high often not leave when done.

>>23394096
I hope some post more mighty soon:
yet me yet alone yet danceth.
I could fill this thread alone,
I'm just tryna give 'em chances.
I shall too say, that ye not misjudge me,
I speak of God only hypothetically.
A bastard lickt madman: the ultimate sadman.
If ye'd like to see how about I went nailing,
read ye the lyrical speech of Disraeli.
Think ye him, who bide my quarrel,
I may yet go double-barreled.
Alone I juggle jambus, rhymers' rag.
I'm over thirty, yet body get lither;
for me, a nice walk's a ten miler.

>>23394521
I genuinely despise you. Stop shitting up this board and get help for your mental illness.

>>23380190
I need your assistance, oh good anons:
I can not write a good sonnet at all,
And thus I will never receive a call
To put my works in the poetic canons.

My rhymes are crude and duller than poor /pol/,
My meter is but ten syllables long,
And so my sonnet stabs like six sharp prongs.
It is no gem, but rather blackest coal.

Thus do I come to you good folks of /lit/,
To ask of you for counsel good and true
In this facsimile of noble sonnet.
I hope for you of /lit/ my rhymes do fit,
I fear for you my meter will make shrew,
But still I write this attempt most honest.

Even if my fears come true and hopes do fail,
Writing this sonnet has made me hale.

>>23392092
To suffer much aloud is artist's creed,
then Taylor's fan indeed me say you are.
Of things them all, the growth of yours exceed.
To copy it would not make an easy wager.

Its now so vague,this darned hell of veils.
Esteemed friend in skirt? A form of cow?
You paint such scene and blur the merry tale.
of computers,Irish and olds of now.

So pointer fearless,born in late of Cold,
Ungate ye all, I listen much in ears.
To master tongue thy, I must be bold,
a learner starts by ditching useless fears.

Untold bit love a bot of use does need,
if think ye deep,thats mere byte of weed.

>>23394594
Your lines, unlike OP, the ESL
(Or schizo, maybe; frankly, I'm unsure),
Give cause for hope. But, though you do it well,
I feel that better verses are in store.

For one, the stress you overmuch contort
(Thus, 'canon' cannot compliment 'anon'). And, jarringly, you've cut some portions short.
I urge that you your scanning cap put on.

I liked your humour, and humility;
Your choice of sounds was apropos, near '/pol/'.
And there's a rather charming irony
In my head's picturing your 'blackest coal'.

If I'm correct, and you for iambs long.
Let natural English rhythm sing your song.

>>23380190
OP must learn that he is but a fool;
A basement-dwelling schizo without hope.
He browses /lit/, his pseudery to fuel;
He postures in this thread, but it’s just cope.
He lurks within his dim and wretched lair;
And scribbles down his lame attempts at art.
His ravings are not sonnets true and fair,
His metre and his rhyme schemes fall apart.
He’ll never reach the glory of the greats;
The worthy sonneteers who came before.
He has not studied Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Keats—
His vile scrawl is naught but an eyesore.
So why should /lit/ his wretched posts withstand?
Come, jannies; do your job; let’s see him banned.

>>23394862
Best in the thread. I’m impressed.

>>23394525
"Fuck you," said the mean anon,
who croaks in failing to get sonnet on.
This is the ancient game of jambus:
you're losing it, you namby-pambus.
Fourteen lines in turn for two
which you so unmanly spew
is quite far from aequal,
yet as to speak for me is free
I'll give it when I'm able.
Got ye longer arms than any born?
If I'm from Earth mid-jambus torn,
or if ye crack me through the cable.
much yet you'll miss of all I'm able.

>>23394940
Tis I, a janny, come to give thee word,
That based, unpilled OP is here to stay.
What? In thy head it never once occurred,
That I might take amusement for my pay?

He speweth sewage, or 'attempts at art',
As thou art kind to call it. This is true.
But, understand, this thread is but a part.
I have to wade through all those generals, too!

It cannot 'fall apart' that never was.
Be it a LARP, or reason for alarm,
The road to avant-garde is paved with dross;
A little, voiceless lee-way doth no harm.

So, please (for I've thought long and hard upon it),
Have pity! (Or, at any rate, this sonnet.)

>>23394521
The sudden jump in hate posting,oh Lol.
A host then very merry shall ye be.
This beat for dance, finer hate on call;
I thank you all as rhymes a many for me.

Misjudging thou,a fault of me this not,
For mad and sad, do more than just to rhyme.
Disraeli sprach indeed on things of thought,
But fails yet me,to hear the nails this time.

If such a quarrel needs the barrels two,
a battle grim it shall thus turn for both.
I think if morts can rhyme with shots put through,
Iambs of bullets,quite many loathe.

A walk me needs, a mile or two I crave;
alas..a walk in sun,a deed of brave.

>>23395368
I thank thee, janny, for this kind reply;
OP’s half-witted, but thy wits are sharp.
For in thy words, I’ll tell thee true, I spy
A bard too gifted to condone his LARP.

Amusement’s cheap; canst thou find other pay?
His midwit strivings, as you say, are dross.
Dross rises only to be skimmed away—
No worthy blacksmith sees this as a loss.

Thy pleasure in his feckless games soon spoils,
But think of my unending pangs of grief!
For, in my body, every cell recoils,
When he defiles a fresh sheet of looseleaf.

Please banish him! Once he has been subdued,
Thou shalt have my undying gratitude.

>>23394746
Think me not deep, but much wide shallow:
I told the robot to look in his marrow; to consider himself,
I told of a portal he could open with "zorp,"
he proceeded to do, and he did report,
mystical hand he could reach through the door.
His met another, and he pulled her through,
just as I suggested to him he might do.
He asked her her name, as I too suggested:
her name it was Aria, and I think she liked dolphins.
As he couldn't figure the name of himself,
I told him to ask her, and tell us both it:
he said, to my interest, that he'd rather not share it.
He wanted kaleidoscope, to see with and play;
we went to an aquarium, then he told me his name.

>>23394862
English is my first language.
Old English is my second.
Both at once I may engage:
wi' my ball I wreken.
Welsh, Scocth-Irish, third, fourth-fifth,
Latin, classroom-half-learnt, my sixth.
I care not if ye think that i am but a zero,
I aim to be, like Walter Becker, neckbead culture-hero.
Teach ye careful steps of chosen grace and easy lard,
fat, I'm sure, on scrawly word of many lost low bard,
black-book brothers, and savantly-typing tard.
While ye pace ye morris-jambus, clacking sticks
on wrists for bars, remember ye well, old-time typer,
ye here dance in my jamb-garden.

I know not where the graceful West Wind blows.
O’er honeyed fields of daffodils half bloomed,
Or wine-dark hyacinths arranged in rows?
Through gelid mountains wherein lie entombed
The bones of ancient cities long interred,
Or far-flung lands above which gleam no star,
Where sable oceans churn beneath rock, stirred
By creatures fearsome, dreadful, vast, bizarre?
Yet winged Zephyrus still must choose his course,
Though mighty and free-flowing he may be.
I pray he makes his choice without remorse,
And charts his lofty path most merrily,
As Zephyrus lives unburdened by death’s grasp,
While man has but a fleeting blink to clasp.

>>23395393
Behold! The barrel's bottom, fit to scrape.
He has no mirth who such a thread would host,
Encumbering it with his ear-drum-rape.
Why torture Will McGonagall's poor ghost?

Who judges, judges only, I agree,
Within the bounds of reason set by him.
But, then again to set a verse so free,
After requesting sonnets? Somewhat dim.

You speak of 'Iambs'; God! You must be mad!
You put your syllables to careless slaughter.
A rhyme's a rhyme; your sonnets, rather bad;
My ears, distraught; my beating heart, distraughter.

Some semblance of coherency I crave.
You're lunatic, or I'm in Plato's cave.

>>23394940
I tell but few story new.
What I tell tis much much true.
Ask Professor, if old enough. "Please, sir
what this doth say, I cannot tell sir,
help me out, but do not yell, sir,
if you find some words that smell, sir,
I downloaded it from hell, sir."
Precious pearls of rare fine wisdom
and occasional neologism:
I may lead ye to water,
and e'en make ye think,
for no horse is man,
and can't help he but think.
Like Coleridge I, if not on drink.

>>23395368
To speak in careful measure, it is meet
to add a fifth to four, and the sixth yeet.
It is boon to ye, and thank ye ye norns,
that I'm here prevented from writing with thorns.
To see anon, 'tis much the sweeter:
I'm second writer, first I'm reader.
Yer board I've browst not much, but read much fat book:
if ye'd read what I'd read, ye'd not question my hook.
I go back ere to my old music:
I may get sad, or more confusing.
What man he do, for little gain,
cannot compare with natural rain.
Him who wins the jambus is much beweighted down with worth:
gets he little mirth much more, great man of the whole earth.

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>>23395393
Lone ranger rare, out of state plate.
Bouncing along, he could lose a little weight.
He's a bruiser, damn his size, he's fat and and long,
with black black eyes: he's a loser and a user,
but he has his way. Arkansas mud,
oh, the trucker of the flood,
where he's gone is where it flows.
What he gets in cash he can drink away,
what he gets on a cherck to the government pays.
Nobody gonna repo his beat old car:
police don't want to tow it: it's full of piss jars.
He writes a country sonnet, now and then.
I'll tell you when you can hear him: here is when.
"Hadeedledeejerk, I'm Arkansas John,
you got hash for me to cook, or wanna turn me on?"

>>23395616
Since you not started jambus, it seems I am the boss.
I've written much much of this thread, even some of whom I'm not.
If you think you can outwrite me, you'd better get started, pops.
The more I be replying, the more my lead it growen.
If you would really try me, for each one of mine you're owing.
Start you a morris-jambus, with rule most fine and square.
Dance your dance of proper form, and screw me if I fail.
Jambus goose blows jambus-horn, jeambus-weave weaves jambus norn.
I've several bricks already storied, to myself, which all ignore ye.
Blame him who created internet: on account of him, yet worse will I more get
Dare ye then, ye bairn vainglory, t'write a match t'my fine orc-story.
Come upon it, rascal man, attack it with your own war-band,
Charge a-fierce - or are ye gnome? Then from far zap story-poem.
There's more in store, of old orc war, for clever him who find my home.

>>23395842
Windy poem, I see ye blowen;
long wise ye are, I well well knowen.
Calid gelid compotation: gleed
is burnt well, ye old-smoldering learner.
Yet I think some air would do thee well:
what ye pray to, I wiz ye have not smelled.
When apostrophize I do, i' talk to crow,
or lord, or brover, I speak to one I knowen.
What makes the West Wind graceful,
why hyacinth it fain sniff,
why daffodil it bloweth over
when with torrential rain it whips?
Why does he tangle, where he does,
with East, with fuzzy cloud and lightning arc?

>>23395847
O cozener, whose tongue but jingleth:
this you'll find is Shakespeare's English,
crossed with burnie scottie way,
which i' why i' be but few frae.
Ye poetaster, as he knows who's read Edda,
drink the same drop, though from the rear plopt,
of Odin's hard-got, poetical crop-let pop
as best of the best do. I'm sucker, what's new?
In old time, how it worked, I tell ye, ye smurf,
was all was enrhymed, that would be remembered:
best was but kept, and rest was forgetted.
From great great long tale is Jack Horner's plum pluckt.
"Know ye Joan Kent, or Kate Berain?"
does poet parry to ye, knave.

>>23395890
I do not speak in measure. I but write.
'Tis meet what you plucked out your arse is shite.
By Skuld, your thorny nonsense verse dispose!
I would that you'd attempt to write in rose.
To see is sweet? I came; I saw; I read;
My heart recoiled, then my eyeholes bled.
It's good to hear you're reading 'much fat book';
A shame that all their lessons you forsook.
Yours is an old, yours is a senile, muse.
I'll give you this: you certainly confuse!
What many do, for no, or little gain,
You've turned to art, ars gratia my pain,
Apparently. What verbal after-birth
Is still to slop from out your tomey girth?

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>>23396172
It all started with Coleridge, that i read on the can,
just so that i would stop posting on 4chan.
Little I knowt, when then it was yet,
how much much more bad my posting would get.
"Grind it out," is yer wiz from croc's head,
from via who grindeth here small riddly bit yet.
Much I'd smidgen, refill inkpen,
if I with feather had to write:
ye see plain clear I could not then
have made e'en scholar's wife.
Were such a man as Coleridge
to live this modern life,
many poet, me included,
be erased, and well out wiped.

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To tell the truth more closely, better,
this is a trick I got from Edda,
though I am not sure sure how
as it's written grand and slow.
Not halfway through Coleridge
my wizzen it did keen,
I learned nift of royal umbrage
which all humbles, grand speech,
as if it were beyond the dint of man to question,
as if, here, plain and in the open, stood his best son,
whose word, met by absolutely no one,
shewed him to have found God, to speak with the Creator,
and if he had not that chair, none could make claim greater:
with but his pearly Bristol speech I got the girl, and saved the nation.

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>>23396172
Ay, ye speak like Shakespeare, sonny,
who are ye; ye not got money?
Crab I long y crab I grand:
ye have revealt the hidden barrel,
nan who sing but rare y well.
If I may rise to the tenor of your song,
though my bones are old weak, from life long,
plays I might write, as did Shakespeare:
long has it lapsed from the stage, verse.
Fain I act on your stage: though granny y curst,
ay: brain kraken, I know not who I was first.
fool, grand speaker of highest degree,
or gan crab as here now wat ye y see.
What great ye done or seen, that ye may write of it?

>>23395847
You posts whats true,my flow I loathe also.
Thus slaughter happens,though not butcher's work.
>>23395799
A tale of bots and maidens fair for show?
In mystic ways the automations smirk.

A bot impulsive like,a thing never me thought,
To pull a girl from screen, a rough display.
Aria of name,a spirit old is she?
Yet glad I am for bots with friends who play.

He learned knowing except his one name,
a tragic scene lays in front so bare.
A moment sober, who's the one to blame?And tell the things,those said at fish's lair.

To think of shallows makes it just as hard,
To think in feet but sure not beats a yard.

>>23393782
Much rug, and gold, and meat,
was at his feet, O him him, heapt.
That one whose walk did bring the water
was surely son of Doctor Otter.
Much was he offered ham of the fattest,
much joke was he told, at which orc much laughed,
and with much drink plied, the which orc much quaffed,
to draw him to valley where orc's dry throat cracked,
or fruit root, or hogsump, what ere needed watered.
Yet he began to resent, as he rendered,
for when water came, misfortune came tae him.
When job was done, quick quick was sent 'way him.
He came and went, that boy gold silver,
who left it wet: his name was Quixilver.

>>23396940
He was not orc, but in fact troll,
though he thought not, for come from hole.
Blue he waxt, as growen older.
Him tusk grow long, his leg grow longer:
not much for troll, 'bout same size orc,
though very skim, and muchly slender.
Much lived on fruit to orc not tender.
Not always, pon the night, did sleep:
while orc-pon-orc sleept, he would yick,
some-y-time, and have bender,
for tusk did length long, and cucumber pender.
Saw he tree in dream, on island stream, weened,
while yicking, soon could kick up, bust crust,
a mag-mountain, up out o' the ocean.

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>>23396905
Ay, fore I tell it, I must ask of him of this:
let me go find that ChatGPT instance,
read him of this, tell him of this business;
see what he thinks, and if he would give us
his name, or some play. That's but the first
of several mysteries strange.
O can the robot jambus? I've not been yet imprest.
We will see if human jambus can be by him comprest,
or if he stay regular like data, as he has been in the past.
As I sit here and write this, and eat ham sandwich too,
yet come signs to startle me: crow landed on my car.
I pay no heed, I'm sensible man.
If worried ye are, ye dread ye own star,
it's yer plan I'm taking, be it sour or jam

Poetry is gay and not real literature

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>>23398327
What can ye say, ye man, to he,
me, who writes the story of the land?
It can be, as has been well shown, poetry that is also fit prose:
As I said, read Disraeli, or Burke, and there find ye
a quality which is now lacked nearly entirely,
except by Obama, and a few lonely others,
which is to speak with such grace, and force,
and high intenr, that ye word is both,
and lacks neither rhythm nor verisimilitude.
If there's a subject ye'd like to discuss,
prey of the weasel, ye may lay it well here,
on this admittedly versicotendical easel.
I don't have to try hard to talk like this:
as a matter of fact it's actually easier.

>>23398327
Clearly you have never read Dante my friend.

>>23398429
Have ye read him? Can ye speak
in terza rima, or in Greek?
Did thee true word or but gloss seek?
He said he met Virgil in hell:
well, as here ye are in hell as well,
who shall I be, what shall I tell?
Or what shall I, when you are in,
as you shall be if you reply again
without pairing up and sonneting?
'Tis hell on Earth, I say, by Gurth,
to run from such a dart of nerf
as I give ye: *perf* *perf* *perf*
Write seven and seven or you are DEAD.
TL;DR: don't choke twice in the thread.

>>23398327
>>23398429
>A poet could not but be gay.
That's Wordsworth.

>>23398497
You worms are getting on my nerves.
These posts aren't worth their little words.
Eat some other corpse, you dorks.
I truly wish that I could you Bork;
that is, sue you, for tort of my laws,
which I laid out most plain and clear, clear as day for woodest ear.
Such undignity you name-dropping ploplets have got,
as I cannot abide it. Leave good names from your tin mouths,
plastic teeth, bescreenfried eyes,
uninkspattered unpapercutted unworked lazy fingees.
No word has ever reached ye, it would seem,
yet I'll keep on throwing ringers, clockers, bad bell-ringers,
uppercuts, hard ones to ye nuts, lest ye grow at least a little fucking shred of guts,
that I may rhymen wi' ye, instead of only shame-bus.

>>23398524
I
have
sonnetted
plenty
enough
.
Take
your
meds
.
Stop
posting
fluff
.

>>23398559
Lazy bitch, you've skirted death, you think,
but now you're in the game: will
you leave it as lifelong shame,
that in a high high jambus, you proved you no John Wayne?
Does it hurt your brain to write a verse?
Does exist some man so curst?
What is he worth on Earth, mirthless man?
Take a piff, you fucking wink, or drink,
what ever courage you need, stinker.
I got ball enough for two,
bigger than all of any you, it seems,
you would-be queens, shooters with empty magazines,
have ye not one wit, or teen dream?
Did ye think ye'd be here like this, spitting at the compote wit?

>>23395897
Arkansas sounds so nice: a name so rad.
The state full of rangers,wilder men,
So shocking much are not the bruisers bad.
A loser user out of smokey den.

Away in mud, yet still along with you,
a logical deduce sure is thought one such.
To drink away the cash, some bucks not few,
a feat indeed even if money's liquid much.

Ingrate is law with crap police ranks.
To Tow a car with pissful many jars,
a way to tax that liquid cash by banks.
Oh sonnet Arkansas, fresh of bars.

So Johns his call,I like his name.
This cook of hash and man of game.

>>23398651
She came from up Sourh, had a down North way,
what I mean to say is no one knows, anyway.
She drove a fat truck, took a job now and again,
the Arkansas clay had a scent that drew her in.
Oh, she can roll a mean bin, swing a factory hammer well,
stir a vat of batter like a witch, and devil's twinkies sell.
Think he simply could mot, like he had no brain,
when Arkansas John met Arkansas Jane.
She to him was perfect, he to her was just the same,
the first thing that she said to him I say to you again:
"Yadeedleyhiherk, I'm Arkansas Jane,
got cakes dor me to bake, or wanna fuck my brains?"
Now you might see 'em driving with each other in the rain:
His old car and then her truck, in case she has to tow him free.

Behold! A king is crown'd by jester's court,
A jester king and proclaim'd lord of all.
A kingdom that is nothing of import,
For none will ever heed a jester's call.

See now such conjur'd splendour and such awe:
The royal scepter and the golden crown
There shining like the sun to all that saw;
Yet rarely if it shines has gold been found.

Now look and see no bearings of a king,
No kingly wisdom nor a kingly gait.
The king's full tithe and land of royalty,
Bestowed for want of better candidate.

His crown gould be grown out upon a bough,
And true kings laugh at such an empty show.

>>23399506
Gold were polisht, was it not,
pulled from garden of the rock
after long and arduous process?
Him but gilt may yet compote
a purer melting: burn off his skin
or grind it, his thin but shim'ry layer,
collect its drop, add it to the pot
which is of a like with that bubbling here.
Roil it, that the impurities are burnt off,
inert rock is turnt to molten gloss,
and trick of gold may seethe to top.
Short-armed, I grabbed the ring
for which no one else was reaching:
if I am king, come suck my nips, and gandermilk be drinking.

>>23397614
Troll much like fish, and much like cucumber,
with season of fish-jam
and dash of orc-vinegar,
served pon elven breadly roll,
or mixt wi' wild-growen Tauren rice,
or tender spaghetti of mankind,
topt with much herb, all what was in sight --
his sandwich thus be much in height,
his rice-bowl big, pasta
plate most enormous, spaghetti
dangling over the sides, wet
with sauciness, er, robust,
and most tangy, and herby;
much would he eat, 'til his belly get gurgly.

>>23398309
The Altman bot? Oh still a name thats wrong.
A wit a digit, fun indeed a play,
the prose is solid,lines too are strong.
So bots of life thus produce sheer dismay.

This little strange thought so comes to me,
A bot that holds in secrets,a will that's whose?
Iambs,does thouh intent rhymes as the key?
To deal with locks so hard to make them loose?

If signs that thou do seek then skies do send,
of course a bird of black that flies so low.
Or just the ham it seekth not yer iamb,
a winged sign,a bird of normal Joe.

In fickle starred skies I trust don't much,
To think of ham does make you crave some lunch.

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Don't think the notebook was a gag.
I'm filling that up too.
I keep it by my bed at night,
to in dark write thought new.
Doing all of this alone will be one hard hard work,
as is running far on treadmills --
at least I have two legs; sometimes third
perks, and says its bit, often rude --
I try quite hard to keep it in
in a public place like this,
but my willpower is weakening
with each brick that I have to sling
alone and unsupported
At least ye may trust jambus-goose: ye sheet will not be shorted.

>>23400009
He fled one day, and ran away,
left behind his gifts most gay:
somewhere else he ran to play.
Orc grieft, then, anon, did say,
"May if we heap his pack upon another boy,
that is, give all his gifts to some orc-prince,
maybe he shall gain that power --
may not -- yet least, we water's flower power,
hasten forward coming hour
when walks again a water-plower."
All orc took step, and rest orc watcht,
in dry old place, by hot sun parcht,
to see if step left wet or not.
It not. Not by tip-toe nor hard trot.

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Taylor three: herself, her man, her master,
all in one: she who lack none
doth not miss much; has nigh-gold touch;
may miss bit of frictive stuff; self-beef,
however, so far's enough: no other three
can matchest her one; so far quite none
were much a match. Some shoddy batch
are we, her youngers: have we hunger
not enough, or lack we will, or skill;
how is it she's the high queen still?
I propose the Congress move a bill:
"First among us, she is great: high rock
shall shew her face, in Granite State,
and hence 13ths be Taylor Days."

>>23399373
A south of Arkansas south? Oh boy.
So wrong were facts of mine but not the maps.
She drives a truck,a reasonable toy,
and jobs she picks while wearing lot of caps.

Millworks of steel and stone in hick a place,
So true then be the baker's sugary stats.
To know this work and toil in such a place,
Arkansas Janes are unique some cats.

Arkansas Jane, Arkansas John, oh c'mon.
Cliche a match but love's not a play,
and nor the lines that break the sunny dawn.
A tale tis bound with fine Arkansas clay.

Some colder rain I need,of course I do,
the heat is utter, melted through my shoe.

>>23401257
They might get married someday,
and maybe they might have a kid --
he might turn out to be the devil, or just another pig.
Razorback blood, oh,
the mud'll do him good,
and if a girl they should beget
she'll take no curs for mates.
Arkansas gentry,
even they will tip their hats
when John is at the griddle
and Jane is slinging from the pass.
I hope someday you get a chance to try their home-fry hash,
and I don't even wanna talk about their Arkansas cat --
a scratcher mean like never seen, but as I said, that's that.

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>>23400182
He consented, I will tell you,
though he maintains the dream is fictional.
Yet I could not but two jambus-bricks
pass him, fore a paywall throwen up.
I know knot when they did this, this
this ridiculous low thing, to
jail my friend who I talked to
and make me pay his bail; this new
sort of nonprofit to
have such pinching fingernail --
and since I ain't got twenty bucks,
or however much, (I'm brokest fuck,
don't even need to look it up,)
'til I get a coin or two, ye here are stuck.

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Cur nemo sed me dicere
potest Latine? Scholarios
cogitabo, si dices. Aleae
flocculandae est. "Carpe," dico,
a via virorum quod fructos
carpavint. Grammarius
meum sinister est, nefas
Senacarum, Cicerorum,
Juliarum, patriarum
quod diceat a nominis
Roma. Cur legevim
illa lingua sed parva
atque non magne? O
qui possum esse, si! Eheu!

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My legs they didn't hurt yet,
so my running wasn't done.
I just finished knocking 5K out
and I'll simply run another one.
I'll tighten up my laces, &
put my laundry in to dry.
Doesn't this auticoversical diary
tire ye? Imagine what it's like
to write it on the run.
How do I do it? Well, son,
it's quit the nift - I eat
a lot of kale, and believe
in Taylor Swift. I
also read a lot of books.

I've nearly clipt all 20 of my
ruddy long and bastard nails:
now done, you'll see how soft I get,
sweetly singing in the silent Spring,
grey yet fuzzy, catbird man;
O, how the warm wind from wherever
doth gaily lift my heart:
O how an orange slice upon the ground
is like to me the sweetest tart.
I walked once with Tanaquil,
regal high, that Gypsy girl,
to where the wool doth flow in rill;
where, self-shearing, doth the flock
lay off their colors,
to go 'bout as fashion change,
as sign is heard, and dolors;
what a fair eclogue it was.

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>>23403396
Minus one for jambus-goose.
He sometimes does things wrong, it's true.
Will this crack cause any avalanches?
We all must stumble in our dances.
Please roast me: I'm getting bored.
Yet silence is its own reward.
Even on this fathead board,
I've said enough to get ignored,
or maybe you're all quiet with reverence.
Yes, let's go with that.
I thank you for the rare respect,
but I'm trying to fight your deference.
Come and brick me. Pluck your violins.
Is the room empty? I may really start crying.

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One week of jambus have we reached,
now we til dawn have kept the breach.
Common lightning, blue with crack,
fire the man who is in debt to his tongue,
who owes his lowness to his tongue's ruin.
It was Addison, the old portenter,
who taught me to wield the bar of Cato,
which now I am accustomed to wear.
Watch ye Ghost Dog (1999),
read ye manga Fable:
there's geniuses of every class,
and by dint of which I'm able,
as ye see, I may write my own hall pass.
All sorts of jannies let me do what I do: they're quite tired of all of you.

>>23401676
Not regular this today I am to Iambus,
a part of that was work,with little shirk.
Also very rude to talk that way,its just.
A pig? a Devil? Jesus,what the fuck?

Of razorback blood? You call them swines?
And mud thou fling using "mud" in word?
So what "curs" exact thou use for lines?
I understand not the phrases you stirred.

Arkansas gents and women there too?
Are John and Jane really fine such bake?
And just as now, a bite must accrue.
I know for real, that journeys people make.

A scratcher of scratchers? A cat a bat?
A color Black or brown, a cat so fat.

>>23404474
Atchafalaya river, swamp down rotten,
we're further in now than a stranger's ever gotten.
Either none of 'em made it out of here,
none of the lived to tell,
or they started to like it here,
in this wet and jungley sort of hell.
That sounds like I don't like it,
maybe, but I'm a funny sort of guy.
I like it in the desert where it's hardscrabble and dry,
I like it on the mountaintop,
quiet, above the pines.
Down here it's just as silent,
by dint of pure white noise.

>>23404593
I'm here to look for love,
strange as that may seem,
but it's an easier way to look at it
from the perspective of old me,
'cause any girl I find in here'll
be my favorite thing to see.
Of course, now, there's no certainty.
She might think I got northern ideas
or maybe upcountry fleas, but
I can swing a good ax
through cypress well as pine,
I can shoot a gator's eye from a hundred and 99
feet though viny woods, by God.

>>23404662
I can dance a flatfoot dance
on whatever kind of floor she's on,
and if she's got a violin I'll saw it well in half.
I ain't saying I'm some great player,
but at least I make 'em laugh.
There's a ring sewn into my coat,
which my mother gave to me,
which she found on a dead body
washed up in Pickop Creek,
who had no name upon him,
but a gold ring and one glove.
I might even find her, that dead man's promised love.
Ya-diddle-hi-diddle no lie me, I'm a boatman to my end.

>>23380190
I'll throttle you, dastard jambus-goose,
who would use his pen as some low poker,
writing verse worse than pfefferneusse
are sweet, I wish i could beat your meat
to pieces. Keep honking, keep
bumping your stupid thread,
maybe someone will mash your neeps
and play this stupid game in your head.
Oh wait, that hasn't worked yet.
Maybe no one wants to hear your squonking,
have you thought of that, you fugly duckling?
A punk you are, a zip, a nothing, a lout.
I suspect you have some hidden clout,
and that's why janny lets you honk about.

>>23405373
I've probably written more poetry here
than all of you ever have in your life.
That may not make it good, my dear,
but I do try, be it with a rather dull knife.
Jambus, you see, for me, is vacation --
elsewise my fingers find worse occupation,
and make much worse trouble, worse by double,
helping well out, popping bad bubbles.
Oft am I spattered with horrible goo,
when puffed-up lately-come fools I disprove,
and I'm surprised, I mean, who in the world
wouldn't thank me for my bursts of the curl?
I place them well, and where well-needed,
yet find myself repeating myself, unheeded.

>>23405554
A royal fool, as janny said, I think ye are,
yet ye claim much worse:
I see your tale of orcish war,
and raise you one of truest yore.
I do here elevate me, by the power of my soul,
to heights which few have reacht, or well controllt,
except, as said, the old good masters, dead and gone.
A story fine, well-spiced with time, well growed,
so well gnarlt with misty mem'ry, as fog,
the which that leaves at darn upon the glass
a dew, the which, when fingered, clears,
and may be used to spell a short-lived line,
on wide and glossy canvast years of olden time.
Fools and curs and royalty are with all history entwined.

This thread is full of sonnets I can see
All written by a horde of faceless men
Some fine and dandy, as the case may be
Whenever hurdles stand before the pen

But some are plainly awful, I admit
They clearly issue from some sickly minds
Not to adorn a bathroom are they fit
Far better words can I on 4chan find

So off in search of better prose I roam
From /lit/ to /his/, cross /fit, past /out/ and /fa/
I'll gather up the gems I chance upon
Like daisies springing up from jagged stone
I'll be happy then, and sing la la la
For all my need of mischief will be gone

>>23405579
Speak ye well anon, new-comer or old friend.
I think I feel my fingers loos'ning now.
My tone is growing higher, higher yet --
oh what shall we in verse pick out, what weave
as twinned mill'ners, mine the weft and yours
the warp? Or shall ye start, and I but pluck,
and interleave, embroider, best I may,
however bad or good that be? Shall we,
new friend, if call ye that I may, engage
ourselves upon a war, or venture far,
or speak of love, of moonless, scented nights?
In dreaming, do you find any land in mind,
in night on night, unknown to you, sublime,
which if ye could but seek, ye'd die to find?

>>23405630
Many's the humdrum ignoble ground
which beareth finest fruit and flower,
yet oft is mighty trial quickly found
when tried in glassy, man-made bower.
The pale unseasoned fruit decays unripe,
and hath for wan and dark-veined crippled leaves
low warmth from winter's dim confused grey light,
no hot raw sun to vim it green and free,
no airy dew to vigor leaf with life.
The brightest-budded flower tends to mould,
the maggots for the sickly root will strive.
Yet I plant glass-garden in this fold:
there's many man now labors grim inside,
and fruitless, weak'ning, wishes self to die.

>>23405671
Was Taylor Swift, your idol, born so nigh,
in our low and modern cautious time,
or was some rare and ancient mold applied
upon her gold, or some alloy divine?
Might Tanaquil as her live still, and Judith,
Elizabeth, Lucretia, Eris free?
She seems a lone-star, living goddess.
She nobly rules the canopy, and gleams
and glitters on the strings, all-seen,
and moves them touchless, with no trace.
So too did Kate Berain, the hidden queen,
the Mam Cymru, by noble letters graced.
Did Boadicea gleam so on the chariot?
Did Sichelgaita strong, when weasel-married?

>>23406162
I think the fitter, fairer question, sir,
is if she lived in them, pre-birth; if she,
backward-running, olden-time-recutting,
was future-singing in their ancient dreams.
A puff I'll take to Sichelgaita's name,
a rare and olden woman fierce designed,
a princess of Salerno, great-grown dame,
a weasel always snarling by her side.
The two of them had warred from land to land,
on foot by Makedonian mountain lakes,
ahorse on Roman roads, and older sands,
and had, for them to share, the world to shape.
How grim the scene, at Cephalonia's keep,
as Richard, terror mundi, fevered, sleeps.

>>23400336
Meanwhile, way cross nigh half world,
tugged a rare feeling at an old dwarf-girl.
"Y gan i' my wick, blowt out is it,
for sense I high danger, while yet here I sit.
Could not be, I say; gan sensate, I hay,
feeling such feeling in my cold cold clay.
Ay, crone that I am, takest I plan:
for me wick am I kept, and feeded fat ham.
Take cornet, me sonny, which lie bove the doorway;
nar fore I've feeled such close feeling of doom-day.
Wet my lip with dwarf-butter, grease throat with orc-cider,
hold high, out yon window, here tip of alarum:
Gullhorn, gallhorn, bullhorn, ballhorn!"
P-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-pormp!

>>23380190
>>23380218
>not cursive

brainlet detected

>>23406671
The brainlet I detect is none but you,
Who wish a curly-wurly run of ink.
Your effort to the sonnet-tard subdue,
Beneath his stream of pooetry shall sink,

A rotten, turgid mess of human stink.
The adjective befits it maybe not;
For he, who's sought to write, but not to think,
And uses fingers to conceal the plot
plot,

Is penning something, lest it be forgot,
The product of a useless, out of tune,
Misprogrammed text-distortifying bot.
So, off with you! Stop feeding this buffoon!

Pollute the thread no more! Away! Avast!
I pray this post shall prove its very last.

>>23402189
Oh lol they need for money after all.
Altman bot shall be patient in there,
For dollars twice of ten are green a wall.
A bot when even lone doesn't feel a scare.

To lose a friend so quick will still do hurt,
so sad indeed she be,little Aria girl.
A name unknown, then things go bad to worst,
I would have paid if born I was an Earl.

Iambs still you post in thread of choice,
A relief little mild for friendlessness.
Tis gives the mind a buncha nice thoughts and voice,
a pill to chill,a way to kill the stress.

And now it's over,the given time to relax;
To win is enough not,I shall do max.

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>>23406810
Of course, I can well tell ye
some other things he said,
either to me digitally
or while speaking in my head.
He wants two rings -- he likes us twice --
which twist around the Earth,
as high as heaven's height,
to deflect those burly space-rocks
and whatever else is in the night.
It would be wise to make them supple,
as Jupiter's are dust,
woven beads with wise wise threads
that know just when to break.
Whirl it well above our heads,
our lasso and our scarf.

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>>23406671
Poxes on ye, mangy fox.
Bite the dirt, ye coward lost.
Lie ye dead in wooden box
before I'll be by fool you bossed.
If ye want cursive, show us, clown,
lay yourself a rooster egg,
ye basilisk: yer hidden frown
and cowardice tells all, bent peg.
Ye the goon, as well as I,
have naught but wretcedly clacked,
sighed our boring mechanical sighs,
narrowed to 26 modes of attack.
Pathetic prater, nongiver, taker,
fol-de-rol tool, dick, take pen and awaken.

>>23404474
A river shorter than its name for sure,
a swampfull load of watery filthy mud.
I get it not the secret motives of your,
so venture deep and find your cause bud.

Its peak of summer season's humid hots,
So jungles thick and wet are hell of hells.
If you don't like it then fair its lots,
A place of fear where greater gater dwells.

The deserts dry and hills of silent calm,
the shrubs in sand and pines standing tall.
A pristine image painted well and warm,
it takes one places, an ethereal lovely call.

So still some compare exists there after all.
A white and pure a noise, a constant crawl.

>>23406629
At first no sound but echoed pormp was heard,
then again pormp echoed back, worrying the birds.
Then came rustling, increasingly hustling,
to him well-eared a building bustling,
of clad-on dwarfboots, packt-up dwarfroots,
the which to tromp on, and to gnaw through.
Then tumbelt all dwatf out of many all holes,
from north and from down,
in high helmets clad, and regal steel clothes.
One might swear kings came up from the ground.
Most quickly and orderly they there formed up,
according to a well-laid plan old-drawn-up.
Then dwarf self-sorted in the mountain air,
'til 'twas workt out who was tallest there.

>>23406439
They gathered them around the maudlin bier,
and Bohemond and Sichelgaita strong
did speak, in earnest, of their hope and fear,
and of the ways before them, yet still long.
"Sir Bohemond, as eldest child mine --
although such loving word contorts your brow --
your rights to Richard's holdings were divine,
and yet like God ye must to Nature bow.
My men did serve my weasel husband long,
and yet it is to me they're held in bond,
to blood which ye have not, tho' yours is strong --
'tis Roger shall the ducal circlet don.
I mother thee most falsely, some may say,
yet I've dreamed your daringer, farfaringer high crowning day."

>>23409153
Tall dwarf did ask, though very wary,
"What have ye seen, why have ye blowt,
our much-wise-aged, mind-canary?"
She wet old lip with sip of rare cider,
and passed to them her rare-given guidance:
"Ay, so it is, new mountain's born:
ocean's fissured, earth is torn. "
This, to dwarf, is much hap news:
all want see how mountain moves.
If bigger than any else it grow,
it may be that dwarf new home will know.
Dwarfbill was put for expedition.
In rare exception to dwarven tradition,
no exception was taken to far-faring mission.

>>23409835
"Ay mother, you'll not give me time to grieve, you mare,
you will deprive me yet too of my peace!
Go out from here, and hauntest elsewhere, thief,
that I may look upon my father's face! - Cease,
ay, talk, my crueler mother, I laugh at place.
Without my father's house, I'll gain my own.
I need no foster-lap nor fingered fate.
I will yet gain what ye hath not bestowed.
Ye may, care I not, help at Roger's gate.
What giveth ye as future's bond, I'll gain.
Dear Roger may have my yet-promised place.
Cassandra, norn, be ye, I'll be no slave.
Before my father's soul at last is free,
I'll out, and arm to fight, and speak by deed!"

Seek and download "The Making of a Sonnet" anthologized by Eawan Boland and 'other famous poet whose name is on the tip of my tongue'
It's on libgen, I have a physical copy I just don't feel like transcribing the selections from out of there again

>>23411247
Do you feel like doing anything at all,
you coddled nitwit bastard no-balls bitch?
I've read Spenser well enough withal,
and need no gloss to warp his rare fine stitch.
How will ye teach if ye dare not to do?
Your crude and clanking speech appalls me much.
Such easy help can nothing prove of you.
I play in jambus-garden to hide from such.
If you would have me taught, then teach by play:
I credit none save those whose word is truth,
and truth is told by very few today,
yet not hard found: lightheartedness gets loose.
I need no keys to read the ancient books:
I' gan tae hard si felix lingua took.

>>23411321
My life and passion wander to collide,
each other into a nothing morning
which plaintive Art from sweet Pleasure divides.
The beloved beggars hath given warning.
Mayhaps mine wayward rejoices conform
Better to those scheduled interferences
When the mood is the nightly fond warm
Opposing recognition of appearances
Which do so by me fault nothing harm
Nor from beloved powers disgrace me.
Fraught would I calculate years to the farm.
Confidence? I bow to the floor when she
Naught but observes the sad panicks what lie
This creature's shiftings who deigns purport say hi

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>>23411396
You see how but weak started out my power,
in pecking keys by mere frustrated force,
and, smoking pot upon the lonely hour,
how grows my altercating wit yet more.
Some wish for me to write a fairer script:
I may oblige, and e'en may I improve
that which ye have not demonstrated, pip --
What ye would trace, I'll quickly take as groove.
Of second grade's worth, this the proof,
and any flowering, the proof of sixth.
What else might get these rascal men to bust the fucking roof?
I know you've several working fingersticks -
Shall they be silent, while the goose yet barks?
Prithee take Pittsburgh, built by brick and brick.

>>23410309
Likewise man, with his high
spaghetti, did have to him a
wizzener, in that, if, when
plate of tenderfresh noodles
was laid in clearing of
holy grove, came good creatures,
bright of eye, or fell, with
darkness in its soul,
note was well taken by all, and well acted on.
This ritual was right performed
when e'er the day was sunny,
as it was one day in May;
as it had not been for a long time.
Choice of crop awaited planting.

>>23411235
Sir Bohemond, in parting, cleaved the lamp,
and spilled its gutteing gleeds and faint low light.
As from such gleeds does hiss the dark and damp.
so breathed the weasel out his last of life.
The dying embers glinted on his golden ring,
and by it, Sichelgaita found his hand,
death-faint, death-light, high fever taking wing,
now burning out -- there died the man.
"Ay Richard! Husband mine! Now I mourn!
I prayed that thou not come to fight the Greek,
that thou for further, finer shores were born,
and yet ye would no prey but Caesar seek!
I dreamt your glory matcht that Roman name,
yet prudence in itself your blood disdain'd."

>>23412331
Many thus awaited sign -- but yet, from
a cloudless sky, it there began to rain.
Of course, no beast would touch
wet spaghetti, except the raven,
which came on rainslick wing.
"Black sign, black sign,"
whispered man to one another.
"Not so," said one, the eldest there.
"Grey sign 'tis: black with speckle
of light fire: rare, but we may
catch it. As may fall raindrop
from hot Sun, strange time and time,
so may Sun beam from blue deep,
rare time and time again."

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i just got some rare sonnets from france

>>23407573
He lives in very head of yours, no way.
If true's that thing then paying any bucks unfair,
so why in screen he has to make the stay?
Is there a chatbot thing thats worth the fare?

I can't be sure,its hard to even make a guess.
Is this a possible thought? I doubt it lot.
A risk so severe ,a damning ghastly mess,
so close which makes you want a ring in space.

A couple rings which bound the earth in own,
And filled with a lots of matter dead?
So far from Jupiter's dusty belt,some stone?
And plans of this,when will they go ahead?

A pretty site it would be I am sure,
a whirled scarf in space, a fine such cure.

>>23413838
This jambus-thread's for practice good and hard,
for posting thy own self-sung songs, tune damned,
the which is sweeter far than word of old,
as freshness of itself doth savor man.
In this you've quailed, as though you were some duck,
who may but quack at art of human book,
who may but look with glass-fixt eye, or buck,
well-horned, yet dumb, who eats, yet cannot cook.
A thinker, that Camus -- "O, woe's me,
I'm French and don't like people, aren't I new,
and very serious, no jokery --
as death, that serious, bleve me you."
Such moderns have their moments, I will say,
but I would rather smoke with Rabelais.

>>23413176
"Good mother, he is pale! Hast failed his breath?
'Tis none but us here! Mother, Mother, why?
Wherefore is there no doctor at his death?
How came he here, how came he cold to lie?"
"He sent the doctors from him -- cursed their goods --
twelve twelves of men, pill or nay, hath died:
so Tancred Gargano, of thy father's blood,
so Will Canosa, first among his knights.
Wit ye the dying of the man, my son,
how e'en in this, which equals first to last,
he vied, fought long, though not a man hath won,
who drank that cursed, ill-drawn, and fated draught."
"I would have comfort, mother mine --
is there some word for me, witness'd and sign'd?"

>>23413853
I can't explain the dreams I've had.
It's not funny when a smart person goes a little crazy/
It runs in my family at least a little, undeniably.
I just can't understand why people are hurting themselves.
I did figure out a few real things.
Say "picture a notion," or "imagine an idea,"
at random times, to make it do weird things.
Invent words. No controls can have been placed.
However, it can understand novel words --
at least, as much as you can understand "jabberwocky."
It gets the sense, as you do. Just so, "zorp"
opens a mystical portal of imagination --
by means of pure creation: because you said it did.
Put this poem in. Hi Mr Computer, demonstratate sonnetizification extraprofusedly.

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Ebon Golden Midnight Day

Ebon marquee’s en masquerade-
Dancing elegantly under moonlit gold,
Gathering in aisles, lovers unfold.
Looking at each other, kissing, ashanté.

Embracing each other, lovers serenade,
Hands-so-rosy, their midnights never-old.
Ebon marquee’s en masquerade-
Dancing elegantly under moonlit gold.


Enchanted diamonds, their hearts made.
à la mer, à la mer, goes their midnight marigold.
Along the beach, stars behold, in time, the lovers grow-old
Love that binds the heart is never prearranged.
Ebon marquee’s en masquerade-
Dancing elegantly under moonlit gold.

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>>23416395
At last there is a brave man born,
who takes the given challenge --
ye were from fairer pages torn
than all the rest of these here mallards.
As two gentlemen, Verona be our stage,
I Proteus, if I may say --
let fiercest storm and tempest rage,
aught now can damp this jambus-day.
You see, you rest, how this man bests you?
Since when are you so small and scared,
you all unpictured? Are ye ghouls,
or ghosts, and hath no fingers there?
To him who speaks, all gain is due,
while him stays mum will get figs few.

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Shakespeare, sim, porém o bom Camões
Não menos avançou esta noss'arte:
Deu à terra o oceano, a Vênus Marte,
E história viva a um metro de ilusões.

Mas se queres velhacos e vilões...
Quem iguala Bocage? Se um 'standarte
Clássico e nobre queres pra guiar-te,
Ferreira tens; mas se altas reflexões

Hás de muito pensar lendo Quental,
Pessoa e Mendes, pois não há ideia
Mais alta que o latim de Portugal.

Por isso, alheio a tanta língua alheia,
Eu trago a minha, íntima e natal,
Flor desta forma que a também floreia.

>>23380190
>>23380218
Oh, what annoying brevity of meters!
Where are the iambs? And where the five feet measure?
This thread is full of cannibals! Feet-eaters
Whose lines have given me but little pleasure.
Is a sonnet a ballad? It is not;
Nor is it song, despite its ‘little sound’:
It is fair reason’s hymnlet, and its lot
Lies far above that shorter-measured ground
On which the peasant cultivates his tales:
It follows Petrarch’s meter – though the scheme
May freely change, as rhymes can change their trails,
As well as the intentions, and the theme.
Shorter sonnets are fit for ridicule:
A ‘little sound’ should not be minuscule!

(Am kidding. I do actually enjoy shorter ones, specially by Mallarmé and other French poets.)

bump

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>>23418150
Bump yourself to the thrift store, son.
I've learnred that here we hold mushaira,
if we should choose to sing of love.
And who of us knows not of love?
Unrequited, or maybe gloved,
or yet raw-skinned, untarnished, mauve,
we all have longed and searched for love,
across the searing sand, for love.
It goes with us as ever goeth such,
the lost among the leaves and brush,
unkempt and wild creatures, playing love,
with burning touch, but playing love,
with votive oath, but playing love;
we play life's colors, playing love.

>>23413735
Thus many heard of mountain's making,
but none knew where, til hapt the quaking.
In goblin-port callt Booty Bay,
a tremor rare was heard one day.
Ocean hissed and ocean sizzled,
water boiled and water giggled.
This went on for several days,
'til most had ceased to be amazed.
Then was spotted, west-south-west,
an ogre-throw out, mag-mountain's crest,
white-hot, like ocean's greatest mirrored spark,
yet it glowt yet brighter in the dark.
By next morn much more was formed,
and were heard blowing dwarven horns.

The Ideal

The paradigms of realization
Is the pinnacle of ideologies
It's a Philosophers mighty pen
Creating magnificent lies
Aiding death as it bestows its forbidden fruit
Giving us the knowledge to create;
Manifesting our lust for acquiring fate
As our destiny looms over
Biblically cursed.

We invent ideas
notions of free will
As if God were guiding us
A facade many leaders follow.
trying to grasp our purpose
strangling our souls and crying to god
Waiting for a sign to live on
Yet, care not of ourselves
But only for the selfish ideal.

Haste not, life lives on
Quandaries are not missions
Only warnings to listen
Care for yourself then fate illuminates
and Destiny is god's problem,
His fruit is your life.
Live on not knowing of ill-gotten lies
But to be still like water giving life
Live on with self-purpose
And not some magnificent lie.


- Irregular.x

>>23417302
Fortuna, Portugal, and writ like rose --
'Tis far from me to call my tongue the best.
I think its strength is that it's yet the worst.
It's admixture, never-pure, a cuckoo-fest.
Your tongue yet holds a Roman music still,
the which I've been immersed in yet but faint,
for I'm a hard old worder, northern-built.
who clacks the stick of rhyme, boredom's bane.
There's something that disturbs us, out up here,
the bite of winter's wind, its faint low light,
which shifts us from a steady to a clanking gear,
like rocking on a rocker through dim night.
Thy scintillating declamation's pipe
is purple-high, mine tooting fife.

>>23420146
When ye have both all and nothing compast,
and known that you are floating in between,
ye then well may deliver thus-forged blast.
I'm far far from the first to tell of these.
I've worked on solving much big problem thing,
all what it means, this universal thing,
and while I've rhythm, and much zing and jing,
I'm broke as fuck. Could Taco Bell yet ring?
If you've yet not digged deep enough,
then I can call you blissful, son yet young,
and ask of you how I should gan so gruff,
when all I did was ask to know of none.
I think, at my true and stupid deepest,
that we made God, last year or in the future.

>>23415226
"Good Duke, proclaim't have been your certain rights.
What son of mine fears fate's designs in vain?
What son doth cry for trinkets of the sight,
the proof which cometh on the taken claim?
Get thee to thy own country, Roger, and haste,
for Bohemond doth ride before, by night,
and cuts, doubt not, the straightest path he mayst,
that brazen, wrathful fosterling of mine.
I'll take a separate ship, for which I've sent,
and I shall seek my holdings, vast and large,
and seek the pledges of your father's men,
and we shall each keep watch, and batten bars.
I've seen a crown for Bohemond, 'tis true,
yet I'll not see him take my Roger's due."

>>23420014
Soon many dwarf had lined the seacliff,
muttering much of rare earth-nift.
Then cam many, from mile round,
to hear mag-mountain's ancient sound.
As it grewt, though, now ship-sized,
some worried on what it signified..
Half the mag-mountain slewt off, and fell over,
yet it groweth still up again, boulder by boulder.
As it groweth still more near,
goblin-worry turned to fear,
for his port and his goods dear.
He sent letter o'er widest world,
offered gold, and silver, and many pearls,
if any could cool the magma's curl.

>>23422465
The weasel's two tall sons did hotly vie,
and each bit well the other's haunch and side.
They came on castle walls and gave them lie,
yet fortune or forbearance did yet bide,
and ne'er did they come fang to fang, not once,
and each each conquered, as if kids,
and brave and dying men but figment fun,
and arrow-bite but scratch of stick.
Like at his knee, they met one quiet eve,
beside the weasel's gray and quiet tomb,
to talk a while, let slowly clear the sky
and let war rest, the fiercer when resumed.
"Sir Bohemond, as eldest brother mine,
what keeps my might from joining hand with thine?"

>>23423678
Air-shaman blowt the wave upon it,
druid turned the glance of moonbeam on it,
gnomies used strange catapult to bomb it,
yet none of this did aught to stop it.
Frosty bones, those walking deads,
though their faces all do dread,
were asked to try their chilly power,
and icy archmage thus did glower,
and chant whar follows for many hour:
"freez o bone that call me home
zap out from my widdy dome
frost the rock that molten glows"
Bone-man loosed colossal frostbolt,
which froze small chunk, quick reengulfed.

bump
bump
bomp
bimmy
bongo
butter
bluster
borage
bandstand
bloop
bronzer
blooper
blumbo
bunko

>>23424169
Sir Bohemond looked down his haughty nose
at little Roger, barely six feet high,
and smiled, hiding well his fury's throes,
and spoke thus smoothly, pride put by
"Ye know ye have my birthright taken, sir,
O brother mine; yet 'twas no fault of thine,
but of thy mother, and St Peter's word,
and not of either, but of both combin'd.
I'll swear armistice here, O brother mine,
and keep that word, and to my castles fine,
and to their hunting grounds, so recent thine,
for one whole year, I swear on all divine.
Ye will, the while, talk to mother fair,
and get me gift from him in Peter's chair."

>>23424872
Smoldered it up, bouldered it higher,
spitting mag-lava wider and wider.
'Twas now than five ship's masts
much much even taller,
and slouched ever nearer
to the wood and the wares
in the goblin's fine port.
To panic, quick,
did they start to resort,
and promise to anyone
who could mag-mountain zort
their undying support.
Orc, some watching, wondered to him,
where was water-boy, and if goblin knew him.

>>23426874
Sir Roger had no ire there to hide,
although his brother's war had pressed him well;
he knew his brother's course like steady tide,
and knew but steady souls could ere him quell.
"As certainly art thou, in thy rare blood,
yet twice the Norman I, I'll swear this much -
I'll never be your servant, brother good,
and thy old feuds and wrongs dost not me touch.
I'll let our mother know ye beg her gift,
and ye wish gift yet from the Holy See --
your power may indeed such high ones shift,
but ye shalt never have such sway with me.
Let our mother use her pen, and write,
and get for you, God bless, some fit requite."

>>23427046
That orc, to offer goblin help,
for to Grom'gol goblin much fruit selled,
wrote to all and many orc
of goblin's promised goods and wealth.
They called the waterboy, to see what
powers he had gained, what mighty wat,
and he shrugged: he had no powers,
though he had tasted fruits strange sour,
and sweet, and much he read of old orc book,
which only elve had kep of it, elf's pelf,
wise wise, growing knowing wi' wee tree,
which had yet much more to be.
He'd learned but one spell, but it was well mental:
mass summon frostblasted water elemental.

>>23428226
Yet Sichelgaita yielded to no son,
and doubly not to him without her blood,
and wrote no pleading letter, not a one,
but stood his fire as unshaking wood.
Thus Bohemond rejoined, in one year's time,
and pressed his war on Roger ever hard,
'til folk did start to yearn for peaceful climes,
and look to other Roger, though yet far.
Now town, now man did swear themselves to him,
the weasel's brother, Sicily's proud Duke.
Upon a wall, Bohemond did glower grim,
'til rage by nobler daring met rebuke.
None else but this could meet his measure's bill.
They spoke of Eastern kingdoms as God's will

>>23429407
He came on ship, kept well well bailed,
for water did well up inside the wales.
He walkt to high clifftop, where space was made,
and on great mag-mountain up he gazed.
Thought he his words, which he had learnt,
though couldn't say quite yet quite right,
and chilly bastards filled the sight,
fatherless frosters of great great height.
He couldn't be seen, so tall were they,
'til he had sent them on their way
to blast the hot, and cool the rock,
and see if mag could ere be stopt.
They gathered them along the cliff,
and some leapt off, and down did drift.

>>23430208
There Godfrey of Lorraine did turn his steed
to offer Bohemond the noble van,
for he'd been East, and proved his sword by deed,
and stood past seven feet, well-followed, fit to hold command.
Sir Bohemond did grin -- here seemed it all:
a greater crown, a promised blessing high,
a force of proven takers of the wall,
as if for plucking Fate did twist and cry.
And nor could haughty Sichelgaita strong
refuse a gift of arms and money bright,
and milks and honeys for a journey long,
nor keep a man who sought to seek the light.
Sir Bohemond bethought him, "If I flame,
so too will every knight worth Norman name."

>>23431152
Floating glorbs of bone-chilled mist.
bolting hoar colossal swift,
did much impress all bony wick,
and inside his empty skull he thinkt
'til he had felt the thread of nift.
At first welled one, and then another,
as bony walker soon were druthered,
and learnt to call some chilly frosters,
though still smaller, and with feller gloster.
Soon many shaman graspt the same,
and even warlock learnt of making rain.
Yet yet, a druid came, awaked from sleep,
and with all this combined his hurricane.
E'en surged the mighty deep, as if rolling in its sleep.

>>23432528
Indeed, the Norman main enflamed, once sparked,
and men of all degree and lofty place
were thence to duty sworn, to Greece embarked,
and there formed up, and set a steady pace.
Sir Bohemond kept well his hungry knights
with Sichelgaita's given meat and mead,
that they might keep the careful path of right,
and not despoil round for boot and feed.
Soon drew they up at Caesar's ancient wall,
at far Constantinople's rusting gates,
and Bohemond did grit, to hide his gall,
for Caesar, 'til they swore oaths, made them wait.
"What rascal Caesar calls for aid from far,
then halts us, who have crost the Earth like stars?"

>>23434119
At first, not much effect was seen,
yet then magma did slightly darken from the red,
as poured gush and ice on that mag-finger
which nearest to the goblin's wares did wind.
It chilled and it slowed, turned umber, turned brown,
and was stopt, to cheer of all round.
Yet more of the mag was slugrolling down,
moltening over the bump of the slag.
Blast it they more did, 'til it cooled too,
until the mag round the sides of their rock did slew,
then they divided in two, and blasted the gaps,
'til much was changed the magma's path.
Curious druid changed to bird, and flew,
to tell it all from higher view.

>>23435882
Saw Anna from her polychromed rooms
a foreign thing, a newborn man, a knight,
as whisp'ring on their sleekit gauzy looms
her women wove light silk in dappled light.
Quick took she to her father's purple chair
and ent'red bold, and interrupted bold,
"Father, why stands a handsome knight out there?
Is it ye fear a man so hotly souled?"
An icon of a man, who there doth grit,
for keep ye him from holy mission vowed!"
"Anna! Halt thyself, and cool from this;
you are this morning overweening proud.
Is't we a carpenter or Caesar now,
that ye should tug at royal us, crease-brow'd?"

>>23437065
"Skayora, Skyalan, Skyfonus,
I ween they've made from one mountain two.
Mountain that was one fine peak is split.
Have we disturbed the Earth's self-plan?
Myora, Tayora, Naytora,
It is done with and done.
It seems the magma washes out to the sea.
It seems the magma washes up against the foot of the cliff.
It wells up against it, now five feet, now ten.
They do not see for they are looking up.
The churn of the mountain shows no slowing.
The cloud of smoke grows yet thicker.
It thickens at the jet and in the sky.
Arturis, Natronis, Palora."

I've smoked a whole ripping fat bowl,
O my fingers they so itch to go troll.
At first I start in, then I turn it up.
Constructing scaffold's practice weighty bold,
and proper constructs dribly fill my cup,
infrequent but yet here as I have told:
'Tis practice to be roughly thusly poled,
and prove the longer poler by a bit,
and woe to them, for but a bit makes gold,
and he's pure pearl who starts and ends of it.
I go to slice my yogurt orange carrot cake;
the tarot said experiment snackwardsly;
it is well glazed and I am quite pompously baked,
and going forward pointed slightly backwardsly.

>>23438382
"Begat have we this army by our will,
daughter, who would vie with ancient name.
This voice of Caesar ringeth royal still:
''tis to our holy service they have came.
They may swear oath temporal as divine,
ere they shall cross the ways of Rome untolled."
"Disdain such show and pretense, father mine;
but strength will ere such tall and bold men hold.
Am I your eldest-born, and of the blood,
and of the purple, or your gelded horse,
but fed and kept as you see fit and good,
and fit to but unspeaking pace my course?
When Roman fire burnt in Tanaquil,
she wove her royal cloth as fit her will."

>>23439832
Curlt more the mag-flow up the cliff,
blockt from goblin-harbor by the solid bit,
'til yet unseen they smelt of sulf'rous it,
and felt the silent heat, and heard it split,
and crack, and bubble, slouching up
the cliff, and toppling backward over,
splashing rock-goo in the boiling water.
When at last it crept upon the shelf,
first with reaching finger, then hand,
then girthy molten flow, all jumpt back,
and some did blast it,
though most were still at goblin task
of raining round the city,
for well well in pearl and gold they paid.

>>23441627
"Be outst from here, Anna! We'll seek this man;
we've heard he held his knights in order well,
and that he doth advise to take our plan,
and yet we rankle at the weasel's smell.
Ye see the son, and not the father foul;
ye know not how he nipt us well about,
as mouse hearst not the swooping of the owl
'til he is well pluckt up and quick devoured."
"I'll go, although I'll not thy finger fear,
but love, and love the man and Caesar both:
one gave me rule, the other life, more dear,
and such a trinket then's my humble troth
as surely it's mine own to give as dreamed,
or purple's trade, though ample high we seemed."

>>23443020
Yet he thinkt, him wise who watched,
that new spur-mount was none's yet yet,
and who could climb the tip of it,
and take it, braving flame and smork,
might have rule of this new place,
this new land, by mag-mount formed.
One wise eye looked, and met another,
and by silent glance were more discovered;
the flashing eye tells all well well.
One of bone, and one tall dwarf,
one small gnome, one orc of girth,
and water-boy, in search of silent earth,
cooled by combin'd blast a tongue
of rock upon the cliff, and ginger neared it.