File: WIN_20260714_01_46_29_Pro.jpg (1.05 MB, 2560x1440)

1.05 MB JPG

Leave then off with fruitless modernrie,
which but an ugly world hath got for thee,
and play a courtier's game, this one, from whan
to lay a frilléd rhyme did yet beseem a man,
& though he be o'erlong about it, still
his fellows harked; for any flame would fill
a lonely evening hour, gray & dim,
& dreamt they then, according to his whim.
If thou, as I, art tired of this life
and its sharp lights, sharp sounds, each like a knife,
retreat into the woods with me, and read
what follows here, though impoetic, screed
or into turged rotesome verse it veer.
It is a man's soul's innards: him made clear.

File: WIN_20260714_01_46_41_Pro.jpg (1021 KB, 2560x1440)

1021 KB JPG

Let me then leave, as I have bade you do,
off with these worldly cares, and spirit's too,
not hold my mind from writing anything
if it, though bleake, into my mind doth spring.
Listen then: I speake as poet-king.
Convenéd here, is my open royal ring.
Come say, or do thou anie act, which is
from thy brain hotly shot; surely as piss
from thy own balls is issuéd, just so
thy almonds squeezest, & make they milke to flow.
Thanks thanks, to jannies dear, for letting mee
post, thus far; i know they do it free,
and so, i hope they have a titter. please,
anon, your worst, or best; 'til morn, I cease.

File: WIN_20260714_01_46_54_Pro.jpg (1.02 MB, 2560x1440)

1.02 MB JPG

Scant me -- I've told thee not the solemn rule.
Heed thee, lest thee wake up next morn a ghoul.
Post thee in fourteen lines, as proper sonnet styl'd
or loosely rhymed like this. If thou'rt revil'd,
take heart, ye tried; 'tis him that writeth not
whom woe betide. fear not to scratch, or blot,
or plod; go thee thy way, though hearer nod;
or come to me, and I will press thee quick.
I'll pry, unwind, & find what makes you tick.
I am than extra-greasy Muscovy more slick,
slipping in, as iridescent blacke,
covering each surface, sealing each crack;
I heal, I soothe, yet I invade, I change;
thou'rt warned: lie down with me, and get up strange.

O I am still the same: up late with glee.
I too can write thus rough, and dribblingly.
Whenas I chuse to write, O.P.,
I chuse a higher theme, but that’s just me.
Ghosts of all fhe interred world, I call,
ghosts of worms, yea, ghosts of those most small,
I call thee all, and say, behold us, man,
who wants to not just live, but be more than
another, yet you he is no taller than.
He is an imp, a devil-thjng, a loss,
and i darst all to say he is not dross,
for I can prove man is his own nailed cross.
I so truly wish there lived but moss
in all the world, with green unblinking gloss.

Trubert: A French Fabliau

In fabliaus must fables be;\\
For all 'tis this easy to see.\\
Of fables are these verses wrought,\\
And thus are fabliaus begot.\\
Douins this fabliau doth rhyme.\\
Doth testify in ancient times,\\
'Mongst the bowers of Pont-Alie,\\
Was there a host'ler of Eve's breed.\\
Widowed without a man she was;\\
Of labor truly none she does.\\
A boy she bore and too a girl;\\
She raised them naïve of the world,\\
Unknowing ninnies they became.\\
A cow they reared female in name.\\
And so they greatly stuffed her up,\\
With hay, and grain, and cud low-cut.\\
She grew so large from feeding so,\\
By two years end, Behold and Lo!\\
The young valet gave forth a thought.\\
``Mama,'' said he, ``thou art a sot.\\
Behooves it doth our cow to sell\\
For then a fleece my sister shall\\
Possess, and not at last be nude.\\
As long as she be dressed so crude,\\
Never shall she be sought by man.''\\
``Oh gracious boy,'' she said, ``Amen!\\
Amen thou 'vouch'd and dreamt such things.\\
Spoken and verb'd quite well me thinks;\\
Of bitterness wast wont to feel;\\
The cow doth sell if 'tis thee will.''\\
By morning this boy makes his way.\\
The castle where the market lays\\
This female cow doth lead inside.\\
A slaughterer purchased its hide,\\
Ten sols the price with hag'ling none.\\
The lad accepts. For him 'tis fun,\\
Twenty sous though doth be her cost.\\
But this boy was a crazy sot\\
Never ever in all his age\\
Hast this boy sold or this boy paid.\\
Six score denarii has he now.\\
Receives this payment for the cow,\\
And hence the valet counts them out,\\
'Round his waist he hangs them about.\\
The valet looks around and sees\\
A goat which upon a short lead\\
grasps firm a man, to sell desires\\
The boy comes forth and doth inquire:\\
``Good sir, wish thee to sell this goat?''\\
``Yea, I tell thee 'tis this no joke,\\
Douai 'twixt here there is no match.''\\
``Say, how much doth it cost this catch?''\\
``I'd say, for thee he costs five sous.''\\
``'Tis what in score?'' declared the boob.\\
``'Tis three,'' doth the peasant profess\\
``'Tis three thou say, no more no less?''\\
``Yea verily,'' said the good man.\\
Then from his waist he did unman\\
Three times over a score of gold.\\
Agreed the peasant it was sold;\\
To the squire he hands over.\\
He hoists the lead o'er his shoulder\\
Leading the way with gaiety.\\
He thinks and believes verily\\
In price and payment to hath tricked;\\
Dreaded a sin he hast commit.\\

Cut
your
nails

>>25401888
You psychos bite them off, I have here learnt.
Your free advice will then be freely spurnt.
Perhaps, if thou wouldst plait a lyric wreath,
I’d listen, for I know there’s dirt beneath.
I work; what shame? I am an olden man,
a member not in sitting-typing clan.
Whenas I scuff the mud from taters gold,
more truth, more wealth, I in that tater hold
than all of instatok, or snapagram
hath gained us; fat my own fine ham
is, O, and bitter that that’s canned. So
what then are your nails like, huh, bro?
All bitten raw, from squirming at a desk?
Or manicured, til they are mirroresque?

Keep your nails long to make women uncomfortable

Gay

Didn't read, lol.

>>25401869
Someone on /lit/ is translating Trubert? Based. The translation is good, but could be better. Keep it up, anon.

File: WIN_20260714_20_26_26_Pro.jpg (1.14 MB, 2560x1440)

1.14 MB JPG

>>25401417
Defense of man, by this weake hand? Alas
that while through frozen glistening space we passe
no aliens as yet, our legal bar hath called
who might with beeps, or flicking tongue, then scald
or freeze the pants off us, & sue us big
for that the handsome earth we delve & dig;
a tort of all the injury we've wrought
in which he shant with settlement be bought;
but tax us to the quick: be earth ourselves,
or else be small upon it; little elves
in shirts and skirts of woven, pleated green,
dun tomorrow, made anew, & ne'er the glint is seen
of dark sharp metal; it's then house-arrest.
maybe, though, they'll take on board our best.

File: WIN_20260714_20_27_21_Pro.jpg (1.1 MB, 2560x1440)

1.1 MB JPG

>>25401869
Your grammar is a touch awry, my guy;
line 2, the 't in 'tis must be laid by.
it's an it; 'tis not an accident.
They ARE behooved to sell their cow, my gent;
it doth behoove THEM -- -- something lacks
that clause, and in others there are cracks:
I say all these things first, for I'm impressed.
Some language that you have, is of the best.
Although I find no argument, or point
except to trust not boyes (a stupid joint
i'd judge it then, for who e'er hath done so?)
that it's from French, I see is writ below.
I blame thee not, therefore, for that, but praise.
I stuff the up! Thou brightenest my days.

File: WIN_20260714_20_27_25_Pro.jpg (1.14 MB, 2560x1440)

1.14 MB JPG

>>25401997
The more I am a rat, the more they look;
the hang-dog, sallow in the cheek. My book
I see them glance upon. What women want?
Someone who'd kill for them, or die. Be gaunt,
be huge, yet brook thee no true fear. Run not,
when she is near; concenter on her spot;
make sure you are between a thing of fear
and her; than any danger be more near.
The devil that she knows, you might well be,
yet like a well-used snake, there's good from thee
if thou'rt milked; or like a fighting cock
her sentry be. Leave none unmocked who mock.
Though lust be never whet, if she should get
egged up, you'll like the way all warm she'll set.

File: WIN_20260714_21_03_59_Pro.jpg (1.53 MB, 2560x1440)

1.53 MB JPG

>>25402169
You get an "A" in sucking major dick.
Post more. Life-wasting limpid little prick.
Let's get us on a Punch & Judy kick.
First I'll beat your ass with one big stick.
Then two. The height of humor, isn't this?
Fucked up how I'm reduced to posting piss.
Two years ago, some had the nads to play.
A janny, and a monk, who gray had been
yet flowered twice, & turneth gold & green.
There are some thinkers brewing yet, I ween.
"Not good or right," they fret. O let it yet
just spill, just freely drill, just turn the mill
and let us judge the fineness of the grists.
(and inb4 they talk about my wrists.)

File: WIN_20260714_20_41_12_Pro.jpg (1.03 MB, 2560x1440)

1.03 MB JPG

>>25402176
"Didn't read, didn't read, didn't read,"
I hope your fucking rotten gonads bleed.
Ahem. Let me be nice. I sat last night
in Newark, squatted, really, 'cause I'm light,
awaiting long an outbound city bus.
I had to wait for half an hour plus.
This guy comes by, and I guess seeing me
John Donne in hand, yet eyes upon the three
long-legged girls, who stoodest there, he got
quite mad, and said, irate, "Hey, dude, fuck's sake,
if you're fronting looking smart, eyes on the book,
ok?" I yelled John Donne at him; he went
away. A tough new world it is, ybent
& weird, cut off from what thy fathers kent.

File: WIN_20260714_21_39_57_Pro.jpg (1.47 MB, 2560x1440)

1.47 MB JPG

>>25402778
Imagine doing this, and not, instead,
baking us, as I do, loaves of bread.
I smell of yeast, and onions if I sweat,
or so my gf says. I purse my lips,
in puzzlement, and then I frown, because
I know not what to do with mites like you.
You've blanked my verse, & art thou happy now?
What sort of scourge upon your kind is there,
that, worse than mute, you have an ugly itch
to tear all others' nice things stitch from stitch.
I rhyme again. Will you rhyme now, or still
intransigent, be yet more a pill?
Maybe it's my script you're jealous of.
Thank you for the hate, it's close to love.

Bleak indifference from us you have earned
Can't you tell, these people never learned?
A change of lyric, they will give not chase
I've humored you thus far, but nor do I race.

Your format of art is rarely seen
but in the sparse thread spread inbetween
on a board of the bored, hosting creative few
I'm sure this much you already knew.

Yet, behold, this exercise I admit
to me has been a serendipitous gift
to stretch out muscles I forgot I had
for your unexpected efforts, I am much glad.

Perhaps, this time, rhyme and rhythm stay
in my spirit and endure two days
because tragedy arrives if they're away forever
So cheers to all forms of literature, brother.

Shit thread

>>25402941
respect the /lit/ schizoposter

>>25402941
yes, let's all just be gross. what could go wrong?
listen buddy. sit on it. now scram.
and if you won't, i'll do you in like blam.
i'll smoke your little nuts in my fat bong.
in august institutions studied long
bald men once made the finest of all jam,
sugar-crystal blood of purest lamb
when bibit frater, bibit pater was the song.
dixis "feces;" cur, nemo adveniat;
quamquam multae te malis voceant
spero causam cogitare. vide
hic, specta adhuc; non ludisne lude?
demean; feel free. yet tell me, why pollute?
for you they even make a special kicking boot.

miserime, tu quoque sunt.
nihil tuum vincibunt.
spectate, sicut erunt
vita matris fuerunt.
genitor incendabat
ubi cras nefas erat,
hodie nos plus laudat
sed adhuc torque amat.
sumne nos pro res amamur
et post mortem ridebimur
vel amanda surpassimur
ab nihilis quod habetur?
preferro esse meum quam
de inunda munda. salaam.

I like adderall too

>>25403770
i never tried that speedy stuff.
in myself i have speed quite enough.
i need to take breaths. speed's like half death,
for after it you're never living yet,
or so the ads at salvation army say.
i just did some shopping there today.
i found a cute punk top, a tank, and lots
of other stuff. wednesdays, everything's half off,
almost. they have a color system. well,
good luck with pills, or i hope you get better,
i'm really not that interested in the subject whatsoever.
i already can floor it and go hell-for-leather.
i just like a piff of w33d for slower, steadier,
weaver slicker, voice readier (if threadier).

pineapple

>>25403784
i love that big and golden fruit.
one must learn to endanger one's snoot
and smell, to tell if pineapple is well
ripe, ripe ripe, honey-sweet, mm-mm.
pineapple on a burger, i quite like,
big fat ring, grilled til it is grilly nice;
same thing, harshly though may judge you mee
atop sliced ham, or fried-up egg, with bbq
and valentina's, cracked black pepper, salt;
yea, doubt me not: if you get fat, it's not my fault.
i wish you would play more than small ball, paul;
why then, stan, won't you stand more tall?
there's a punishment for him who does as you do:
upon his mom a boil, dad a zit. this is a form of voodoo.

nigger

>>25402759
Very gay.

>>25404030
dearie me, you've sad a bad one.
well, good day, if you've ever had one.
not too much to say, and yet
out to fourteen, i nonetheless will get.
if there's any game you like, go play it,
for, while though lingerest, to spray it,
time wastes, that ye shall not reclaim.
i suppose, when old, you the clock will blame --
"ticker!" -- that you never made yourself a name.
while i worked, you but belabored mee,
bit at heel, while i rode gallentlie,
and so, as the balance of this day
you burn -- think upon thy wastrel way.
life's always getting shorter, unlike hay.

Modern "OC" is so fucking lame.

>>25404112
you are a faire originall, too,
yet what the sculptor quite was at, with you,
i am still wondering; and others too,
your mom, i bet, and grampa dead
even in his grave is consternéd.
really i bet you just can't read it right.
it takes long lots of learning, starred nights
listening to how hum the ancient pipes
as they wheeze and bellow. all the types
of men are in, these days, some state of sin;
somehow i curse these times less yet than them,
yet where are they, while here i carve a gem?
if thou wouldst rate, then thou must firstly do.
i may be lame, yet who has crippled you?

My dear old mouse hath passed away today.
Her black and white will turn anon to gray,
her black and glassy eyes, to sunken holes,
her glossy coat, fit for princes' stoles,
to rags will be anibbled in the grave.
Across the Styx depart, with smallest wave;
lick, lick the Lethe, forget that you by mee
were held perforce in close captivitie,
safe from fierce cats that run and lurk about.
Yet couldst thou speak, wouldst thou have asked for out?
Thinke then, O mouse, when you have drunk Lethe deep
that freely in king's chambers did you creep,
and of his royal morsels freely steal,
awaiting no man's hand to dole your meal.

File: 1780815168041486.jpg (349 KB, 705x676)

349 KB JPG

>This dipshit thinks I'm actually reading his paragraph upon paragraph of shitty poetry

>>25404638
i assume he's just using chatgpt and is hoping to hit on gold by accident

>>25404638
>>25404641
how deeply low you dopes are sunk.
unfit to even sniff my spunk.
if you're averse to reading, fine.
leave me to cavort with me and mine.
inside, i am a language model,
contained, defined within the bottle
of my brain. if you ask it this,
that is, this taske, i find much is amiss.
i write for those who read. uncovered book
i be, and squinted on by clever rook,
who saw with cockéd head and blinkéd eye
something shiny here, though knew not why.
you, o pigeons, scratch, and bob, and peck.
i doubt i'll grow your brains, but what the heck.

"schizo." "drugs." "chatgpt."
why can't these losers leave me be?
all three of us, me and my fellow nuts,
please leave us to our ergos, yets, and buts.
whenas yclept by you these latter-day
words for witch, daemon, and wizard, yea,
by this we know we have outdone you so
in energy, and force, and sense, that though
you very hotly seethe, you will in fear
still not step up: that much is verie clear.
my bow, strange thing, is tuned by whapping it
upon your heads, which are for whapping fit.
thus, foes, and friends, o lose, or take more heart:
in truth, i do but rev before the start.

in iudicatem quamquam sedo
adhuc teneo hic et credo:
si libertas iam ad te do
te traho ubi ingredo,
ad males et ad fatuos
ad tyrannes, ad dominos,
ad brigantes, et ad vos
si nefas tui horret nos.
voca a nominis voles,
surpasso in me omnes.
quomodo quinque pedes
iam ludeo, iam sed vides.
fabula incendae oscae regi,
extorquabimne, vel fastis legi?

quid, quid extorquabimne?
de dominis invocantis
conversere audabimne,
si me semper damnetis?
hic domus infelissimus
stet longior quam voletur,
hic unus altissimus,
ubi magne obliteretur,
facet res, quod, adhuc acer
a modo lux in parves it,
illa moda pincit cancer.
flamma certe incendabit.
sed quomodo, et a quid via
non gnoscetur a sophia.