Alas poor Dominic, he's gone to hell, He runs out of steam by "a sad refrain", And like an ape in the zoo we know so well He can only throw shite back in hopes of stain. Phrases like "a shit eating grin" are most feeble A way to end a poem Phillipic Neither image nor metaphor as is needful They self-refer to the poet non-Homeric Showing all that it is he of whom the shit is full. Your feeble rage is ugly, you hurl yourself against the bars Chattering madly and aping sadly, you have this contest lost Next time think before joining one of these poetic wars Lest you again be on my barbed with, most tossed. Dominic, here's a dollar, buy a clue What you posted was not a sonnet, and untrue.
Oh Dominic, don't even try: you don't Even have the basic talent, or the facility With words you are the merest cunt Which is my "term of art" for "lack of ability". Your pseudo sonnet, it is a psonnet In which the p is silent along with any sense It is written only to make a rhyme It is footless and foolish and a pure expence Of spirit in a waste of shame. Search oh search your online rhymonary I shall chortle at your lack of fame: For it is to me one and the same With shame, go haem, to thy old Mither: On the vine has your effort been seen to wither.
On Nov 22, 10:08 pm, spinoza1111 <spinoza1...@yahoo.com> wrote:
> You are not worth the promising, Dominic > You are not worth a promise keeping. > You are not worth this poetic trick > Which is sure to have you weeping.
Wrong, as usual, you little parrot; by the way, your verse has little, if any, merit. The only thing here that might cause me to weep, Is the laughter engendered by your "poetry", You little parrot creep.
> I leave for convenience and reasons of state > I return when it amuses me to do so: > I leave because to waste time I hate
Nice construction there...your poetry is as bad, as your friend lacksanity is mad.
> I return when I need a chuckle and an ho, ho ho. > Deal with it, chump, brood on it, lump:
I'm not brooding on anything, spin, but look at the frenzied state that you're in. Four crappy poems (and counting?) in reply, To my one but brief poetic try.
> Taste the sweetness of contempt > I have returned to make you jump
I'm sitting down, and laughing at your lack of wit. You have returned, and now you're tasting shit.
> Should you bad verse again attempt. > I am your worst nightmare, you'll never me ride
Some more of spin's sophomoric tries at verse. Your poems or your delusions, I can't tell which are worse.
> Your Mither's calling, hie the home to their [sic] hide.
On Nov 23, 11:32 am, Dominic Hughes <mah...@aol.com> wrote:
...
To call a dog a cat, to call "this" a "that" Is not to make it into a whatcha callit It is to do but diddly "squat" To be, and not-not to be, an fucking idiot. To call my poems in any way deficient In your mess of verse that's not in the sonnet form Is at best only to be very fast and efficient At proving to the world that thou art larden turd and worm. Satirical Marysas blows breathless on bagpipe bad And is beaten for his pains, he is not paid: He is sad but we are glad And unfraid of you while you are flayed. Give up the attempt, oh sottish sot of all Once again this poet heres thy Mither call.
Edward G. Nilges 23 Nov 2009: Moral rights have been asserted, so blow me.
On Nov 23, 11:32 am, Dominic Hughes <mah...@aol.com> wrote:
> On Nov 22, 10:08 pm,spinoza1111<spinoza1...@yahoo.com> wrote:
> > You are not worth the promising, Dominic > > You are not worth a promise keeping. > > You are not worth this poetic trick > > Which is sure to have you weeping.
> Wrong, as usual, you little parrot; > by the way, your verse has little, if any, merit. > The only thing here that might cause me to weep, > Is the laughter engendered by your "poetry", > You little parrot creep.
Repeating a metaphor twice? How nice It shows your nincompoopish incompetence It shows you're running out of fuel, fool unwise It shows you have no brains, no cunning and no sense. And you turn around around and around In a narrowing, not widening gyre When to shit you return, liking the sound You're just preparing your scribbles for the fire. "You little parrot creep?" You're putting me, to sleep This is an insult adolescent It's obvious that you've run out of ideas, and weep Having lost the sense, the trail, and scent. Dominic, these poems of yours are fugues most horrible Flights from the reality that you can't write above the level terrible.
> > I leave for convenience and reasons of state > > I return when it amuses me to do so: > > I leave because to waste time I hate
> Nice construction there...your poetry is as bad, > as your friend lacksanity is mad.
> > I return when I need a chuckle and an ho, ho ho. > > Deal with it, chump, brood on it, lump:
> I'm not brooding on anything, spin, > but look at the frenzied state that you're in. > Four crappy poems (and counting?) in reply, > To my one but brief poetic try.
Oh why maudit do you even essay to try? Your squibs escape you into thin air They fly not high and then they die They've not even the sonnet form so fair. You've regressed to doggerel childish couplets The quatrain it makes your brain to strain Because you can only part of the time rhyme rhymelets And cannot hold a thought four lines entrain. You're losing this fight you lost it long ago Thus ever to Internet thugs who like to assault people They shall on my sword struggle, being my foe They are not men they are indeed sheeple. Down dog down and fiends, gather around Drag him from Parnassus we like not his sound.
> > > > > > > > > This got emended in the HLAS Tavern after being repeated drunkenly by > > > > > > > > > literary monkeys as follows, providentially fixing the meter PG > > > > > > > > > soberly objects to.
> > > > > > > > > >> > Anti-Strats
> > > > > > > > > >> > Oxfordians [rescind the death] in Eddie's lifespan, > > > > > > > > > >> > For it's necessary to [Artfully] date [those later] plays[;] > > > > > > > > > >> [Plus] Eddie was a [farting] part of that Noble Clan; > > > > > > > > > >> > [and] Spenser had him under his perfect gaze.
> > > > > > > > > >> > Marlovians do think they are [shrewd] scholars[,] > > > > > > > > > >> > But, faking his [Fairy] death is not established[;] > > > > > > > > > >> > Thus, this [Faker] theory gets whoops and hollers! > > > > > > > > > >> > He could not remain, surely it was [devoutly] wished.
> > > > > > > > > >> > Baconians [prefer to] say he was Word-Master. > > > > > > > > > >> > No disputing that, but look at his [cryptic] style[;] > > > > > > > > > >> > He prophesied, like a [Elizabethan] Holy Pastor. > > > > > > > > > >> > His fame was prose, intended to beguile.
> > > > > > > > > >> > These [attribution] candidates get lots of attention, > > > > > > > > > >> > But, the [author's] canon was Strat Man's invention.
> > > > > > > > > >> > Michael Martin
> > > > > > > > > >> This is extarordinary: fourteen decasyllables, and not a pentameter among > > > > > > > > > >> them; you'd expect one or two by chance. And yet it shows evident signs of > > > > > > > > > >> strain, as though being twisted into some imagined pattern: "Marlovians do > > > > > > > > > >> think they are scholars".
> > > > > > > > > >> The really weird thing is that if we take a much shorter passage of prose > > > > > > > > > >> from his previous post we find several chance pentameters, all in unforced > > > > > > > > > >> idiomatic Engish: > > > > > > > > > >> . > > > > > > > > > >> "Marlowe and Shakespeare must have been well known" > > > > > > > > > >> "Others were likely trying to ride their coattails." > > > > > > > > > >> "which lacked the loftiness of Shakespeare's plays." > > > > > > > > > >> "It's similar to hit movies of today,"
> > > > > > > > > >MM: > > > > > > > > > >Speaking of paradoxes, Peter G., I think you're a scholar, but did you > > > > > > > > > >know that there are "rhythmic variations," or exceptions to the > > > > > > > > > >rules? For example, read this:
> > > > > > > > > >*****If you want to know something about metre, don't go to Wikipedia -- > > > > > > > > > >that's amateur hour. Try the work of a published expert in the field:
> > > > > > > > > >Groves, Peter L., <Strange Music: The Metre of the English Heroic Line>, ELS > > > > > > > > > >Monograph Series 74 (Victoria, B.C.: University of Victoria, 1998).
> > > > > > > > > >Groves, Peter L., "Shakespeare's Pentameter and the End of Editing", > > > > > > > > > ><Shakespeare> (Journal of the British Shakespeare Association), 3:2 (2007), > > > > > > > > > >126-42
> > > > > > > > > >Groves, Peter L., "Finding his Feet: Wyatt and the Founding of English > > > > > > > > > >Metre", <Versification: An Electronic Journal of Literary Prosody> 4 (2005) > > > > > > > > > >ISSN 1546-0401 (http://www.arsversificandi.net/current/groves.html)
> > > > > > > > > >Groves, Peter L., "'Knocking a verse on the head': towards a performance > > > > > > > > > >grammar of English verse" in <Metrum, Rhythmus, Performanz>, ed. Christoph > > > > > > > > > >K per (Frankfurt-am-Main: Peter Lang, 2002), 215-228.
> > > > > > > > > >Groves, Peter L., "What Music Lies in the Cold Print": Larkin's Experimental > > > > > > > > > >Metric", <Style> 35(2001):703-23
> > > > > > > > > >Groves, Peter L., "'Water from the Well': the Transmission and Reception of > > > > > > > > > >Chaucer's Metric". <Parergon> n.s. 17 (2000): 51-73
> > > > > > > > > >Groves, Peter L., "The Chomsky of Grub Street: Edward Bysshe and the Triumph > > > > > > > > > >of Classroom Metrics", <Versification: An Electronic Journal of Literary > > > > > > > > > >Prosody> 3 (1999) ISSN 1546-0401 > > > > > > > > > >(http://www.arsversificandi.net/backissues/vol3/essays/groves.html)
> > > > > > > > > >Peter G.
> > > > > > > > MM: > > > > > > > > With all due respect to our scholar and author, Peter Groves, he > > > > > > > > doesn't tell me what to write, nor how to write. I'll throw this out > > > > > > > > for cogitation:
> > > > > > > > From onelook.com
> > > > > > > > Quick definitions (poetry)
> > > > > > > > noun: literature in metrical form
> > > > > > > > noun: any communication resembling poetry in beauty or the evocation > > > > > > > > of feeling
> > > > > > > > MM: > > > > > > > > All the members of Tavern HLAS can readily see that Groves is more > > > > > > > > congruent with definition #1, while I'm more interested in the > > > > > > > > communication of "feeling," and am more congruent with #2.
> > > > > > > > I think most of your great poets, Whitman, Dickinson, Shakespeare, > > > > > > > > Donne, etc., often wrote congruent with #2. We might as well eat > > > > > > > > adult food sometimes, and forego the baby food, IMO.
> > > > > > > > If Shakespeare had to spend an inordinate amount of time getting the > > > > > > > > meter perfect, then the canon might not have been as large as it is. > > > > > > > > Some sacrifices have to be made, sometimes. The great poets see the > > > > > > > > end, and what they write is a means to an end. The greatest poets > > > > > > > > have tried to convey meaning, not necessarily metrical perfection.
> > > > > > > > Michael Martin
> > > > > > > Do you have any communications resembling poetry (in beauty or the > > > > > > > evocation of feeling) that you'd be willing to share, because I > > > > > > > haven't seen anything like that from you yet?
> > > > > > > Dom
> > > > > > MM: > > > > > > Tell us, then, what attracts you? Would you like another birth in > > > > > > this world?
> > > > > > Michael Martin
> > > > > That is not responsive to my post.
> > > > > Do you have any communications that come even close to resembling > > > > > poetry (in beauty or the evocation of feeling) that you'd be willing > > > > > to share?
> > > > > Dom
> > > > MM: > > > > You are not responsive to my post. I've posted many thousands of > > > > messages discussing mystic theory. That would appeal to a few, but > > > > sincere seekers are as rare as hen's teeth. That's evocation of > > > > feeling. Shakespeare didn't always stick to the "beauty" approach, as > > > > even you must admit. He used contrasts, similar to Marlowe's Faust. > > > > Sometimes, the Masters give us a bitter pill to swallow, but whether > > > > we swallow it, or not, is up to us. Christ said, "Some seeds will > > > > fall on barren ground." Timon of Athens is a good example of not > > > > using the beauty approach. :-)
> > > You are still dodging my original question. Why? If you are, as you > > > claim, the reincarnation of William Shakespeare, I'd expect to see > > > that you possessed at least some of his poetic talent.
> > > Do you have any communications that come even close to resembling > > > poetry (in beauty or the evocation of feeling) that you'd be willing
> > Evok'd be feeling? What way? From thee in what way, and how > > Shall we get blood from a rock, bread, from stones > > Or water from a wound? Now is always, now, > > And now, we are in valley of dry bones. > > Dry these bones they will not live and they are for > > The sarcastic sarcophagus or eater of the dead, > > Their polished beauty not for thee...it would bore > > It would irritate, it would remain a book unread. > > I'd rather you should go see what the hell is on TV > > Surf the remote remotely, abstractedly and in anger: > > Look back look forward look around to see > > Nowt but shit , that's the hazard, that's the danger. > > Turd calls to turd and is unheard: > > It searches for the siftings of an unclean bird.
> > Edward G. Nilges 22 Nov 22 2009 Moral rights asserted, so watch your > > ass.
> > > > As I wrote in another message, sometimes we should forego the baby > > > > food and try adult food.
> > > You should probably buy more cat food.
> A shade returns once more unto this land. > Poor spin, struts in, and rears his empty head, > Butts in, opining on what he cannot understand, > Trying out his hand where Michael fears to tread. > This shade had banished us, as Coriolanus had once banished Rome, > But now returns, no promise can he keep. > He
> On Nov 23, 11:32 am, Dominic Hughes <mah...@aol.com> wrote:
> > On Nov 22, 10:08 pm,spinoza1111<spinoza1...@yahoo.com> wrote:
> > > You are not worth the promising, Dominic > > > You are not worth a promise keeping. > > > You are not worth this poetic trick > > > Which is sure to have you weeping.
> > Wrong, as usual, you little parrot; > > by the way, your verse has little, if any, merit. > > The only thing here that might cause me to weep, > > Is the laughter engendered by your "poetry", > > You little parrot creep.
> Repeating a metaphor twice? How nice > It shows your nincompoopish incompetence > It shows you're running out of fuel, fool unwise > It shows you have no brains, no cunning and no sense. > And you turn around around and around > In a narrowing, not widening gyre > When to shit you return, liking the sound > You're just preparing your scribbles for the fire. > "You little parrot creep?" You're putting me, to sleep > This is an insult adolescent > It's obvious that you've run out of ideas, and weep > Having lost the sense, the trail, and scent. > Dominic, these poems of yours are fugues most horrible > Flights from the reality that you can't write above the level > terrible.
> > > I leave for convenience and reasons of state > > > I return when it amuses me to do so: > > > I leave because to waste time I hate
> > Nice construction there...your poetry is as bad, > > as your friend lacksanity is mad.
> > > I return when I need a chuckle and an ho, ho ho. > > > Deal with it, chump, brood on it, lump:
> > I'm not brooding on anything, spin, > > but look at the frenzied state that you're in. > > Four crappy poems (and counting?) in reply, > > To my one but brief poetic try.
> Oh why maudit do you even essay to try? > Your squibs escape you into thin air > They fly not high and then they die > They've not even the sonnet form so fair. > You've regressed to doggerel childish couplets > The quatrain it makes your brain to strain > Because you can only part of the time rhyme rhymelets > And cannot hold a thought four lines entrain. > You're losing this fight you lost it long ago > Thus ever to Internet thugs who like to assault people > They shall on my sword struggle, being my foe > They are not men they are indeed sheeple. > Down dog down and fiends, gather around > Drag him from Parnassus we like not his sound.
> > > Taste the sweetness of contempt > > > I have returned to make you jump
> > I'm sitting down, and laughing at your lack of wit. > > You have returned, and now you're tasting shit.
> > > Should you bad verse again attempt. > > > I am your worst nightmare, you'll never me ride
> > Some more of spin's sophomoric tries at verse. > > Your poems or your delusions, I can't tell which are worse.
> > > Your Mither's calling, hie the home to their [sic] hide.
> > > > > Your fucking hostility and hatred is even more off-topic. Any time you > > > > > make the defects of another person your main theme as opposed to > > > > > constructing refutations of his views, you're off-topic. > > > > I'm not hostile and I don't hate. You, on the other hand, appear to > > > > have some issues in this area. MM makes himself the topic, something > > > > that you don't seem to want, or be able, to understand. He sincerely > > > > believes that he is the reincarnation of Shakespeare and that he > > > > derives superior knowledge about Shakespeare from the fact hat he once > > > > was Shakespeare. He has said that rejection of his beliefs as to > > > > Shakespeare is rejection of him. If you had participated in HLAS, you > > > > would have seen that I have constructed refutations of MM's views > > > > based on the Shakespeare texts themselves. Instead, you'd rather jump > > > > in here half-cocked like the drama queen that you are. > > > > Dom > > > 1. What's evil about being off-topic? > > > 2. Who gets to decide what off-topic, what not? > > > 3. Why is it off-topic to discuss the sanity of > > > someone discussing Shakespeare at a Shakespeare forum? > > > --Bob G.- Hide quoted text - > > > - Show quoted text - > > Since MM claims to have been Shakespeare, and to be able to explain > > Shakespeare's meaning and his intent as a direct result of this > > "special source" of knowledge, it is not off-topic to discuss his > > sanity. > It IS. The only fit subject is whether he's produced valid arguments.
MM: That is not a fit subject, either. Don't you become an enabler, Spinoza. This group has plenty of them, already. Some things are not easily argued. That would include spiritual truths. This world has become very opinionated with so many religions. Each one presents an argument. Even atheists, agnostics, and non-religious present arguments. They all think they have the best argument, unless some of them are brave enough to admit that they haven't a clue about spirituality.
> I've addressed this and shown that he hasn't in some instances, > because his mysticism reifies concepts.
MM: Spinoza, are you tiptoeing through the tulips? Every Saint or Perfect Master has reified concepts of Past Saints and Masters. That doesn't mean those concepts can be argued, like throwing a bone to the dogs. Give me a break. One has to develop his own capacity to see and hear the spiritual truths. This was the main topic of Shakespeare's canon and sonnets, BTW. If you think TRUTH ought to come out, as a new model car, every year, then I disagree with that. Truth is eternal. Shakespeare laid foundations for eternity, and he bore the canopy, as the truth- teller. As Shakespeare did, I'm just discussing truths. People can accept them, or reject them. They are not for arguing, I'd say. Faith is the first step. If we have faith in a Master's teachings, then we can prove them by meditation. The True Home is for people who deserve it. It is not going to be brought down to earth-level, just for the sake of proving arguments. So many Saints have come and gone, and that has never happened. There have been signs and wonders, however.
> The parable of the Cave applies. He's been dazzled by a vision (which > could be false) but you Trogdolytes can't judge him.
MM: Why do you take the negative? They could be true, from your POV, since you don't know. Michael Martin
>Alas poor Dominic, he's gone to hell,
This is very poor. You are using the word “hell” just to make a simple rhyme, and it has no relationship to anything in the rest of the poem.
>He runs out of steam by "a sad refrain", >And like an ape in the zoo we know so well
What zoo do we know so well.
>He can only throw shite back in hopes of stain.
You’re the one who first shit in this thread, Yet now you run and condemn the trick. Turds flowed from the mouth in your febrile head, Coprophagia could be what is making you so sick.
>Phrases like "a shit eating grin" are most feeble
Not in this instance. Not that you would be able to discern it, but, in this instance, the phrase “shit-eating grin” is meant to be taken literally, along with its usual usage of meaning a smug, self- confident expression indicating a ridiculously arrogant sureness.
>A way to end a poem Phillipic
A fine way to do so, if I do say so myself – why not use insulting language in response to insulting language?
>Neither image nor metaphor as is needful
The image is quite appropriate to you in both its senses, since you are a smug and arrogant person, and you came into this thread with turds dripping from your mouth.
>They self-refer to the poet non-Homeric
This is simply nonsense here, meant only to supply a rhyme, but obviously making no sense.
>Showing all that it is he of whom the shit is full.
This is laughably bad. The shit is full of he?
>Your feeble rage is ugly, you hurl yourself against the bars >Chattering madly and aping sadly, you have this contest lost >Next time think before joining one of these poetic wars >Lest you again be on my barbed with [sic], most tossed. >Dominic, here's a dollar, buy a clue >What you posted was not a sonnet, and untrue.
What I posted was not meant to be a sonnet, and I never said that it was. If you have a dollar you might consider investing it in ‘Poetry for Dummies’ – that would be the level that would be appropriate for you.
>You are not worth the promising, Dominic >You are not worth a promise keeping. >You are not worth this poetic trick >Which is sure to have you weeping. >I leave for convenience and reasons of state > I return when it amuses me to do so: >I leave because to waste time I hate >I return when I need a chuckle and an ho, ho ho. >Deal with it, chump, brood on it, lump: >Taste the sweetness of contempt >I have returned to make you jump >Should you bad verse again attempt. >I am your worst nightmare, you'll never me ride >Your Mither's calling, hie the home to their hide. >Oh Dominic, don't even try: you don't >Even have the basic talent, or the facility >With words you are the merest cunt
That’s supposed to be a rhyme? I can understand that you’ve gotten sand in your vagina, but can’t you do any better than this? .
>Which is my "term of art" for "lack of ability".
Who cares about your “terms of art”, When your poor “poems” are let loose to beg. You wouldn’t know art from a mushrooming fart, Or the shit that is flowing down your leg.
>Your pseudo sonnet, it is a psonnet >In which the p is silent along with any sense
It made sense to you – enough sense that it caused you to let loose with great streams of turds posing as poetry, and claiming to smell as sweet.
>It is written only to make a rhyme
No. It was written to reply to your idiocy, and to compel you to respond with even more pathetic idiocy and even worse poetic efforts. You jumped when I called and performed quite as expected. Thanks little parrot spin.
> This is very poor. You are using the word “hell” just to make a simple > rhyme, and it has no relationship to anything in the rest of the poem.
If you can't write a bloody sonnet admit it Don't become a critic, it's a dodge: Just leave the field in shame, and quit it Go back to your pathetic little lodge. As to rhyming for convenience, some of us don't strain: Humorous verse is full of stunts, And rhyming that's intended to cause pain Especially to humor-challenged cunts. The fact is at this level you cannot write And the fact is you attacked a fellow human being In my book this gives me an unalienable right To poetically take aim at your old bean. If you can't stand the heat get out of the kitchen This discussion you for certain ain't enrichin'.
> >He runs out of steam by "a sad refrain", > >And like an ape in the zoo we know so well
> What zoo do we know so well.
The zoo of hell do we know well, so well: It's full of interesting and curious beasts Hourly ringeth there a solemn knell For the beasts to sing of that which feasts. That which lurches to be born again On a darkling plain, to a nighted city Which hath the innocent name of Bethlehem The one in Pennsylvania, more's the pity. You log on here to insult your fellow man Losing even the name of man in this crusade Trogdolyte you become and an also-ran A squeaking gibbering Internet shade. Meet the beast at the feast tomorrow at midnight It is sure to scare you, and may even set you right.
> >He can only throw shite back in hopes of stain.
> You’re the one who first shit in this thread, > Yet now you run and condemn the trick. > Turds flowed from the mouth in your febrile head, > Coprophagia could be what is making you so sick.
My we are a Johnnie one-note flute My we can't get off the subject Play your pipe: tootly toot You obsessions are naught but abject. Your anger's showing, indeed, it's glowing Like a lump of coal in your Christmas puddin': But it's dragon's teeth that you are sowing And a whirlwind you'll be sure a-reapin'. Post on little man my reply shall be Better than thee can hope to fashion For I am the spirit of punitive poetry Come to be thy condign thrashing. You're asking for trouble, and you're gonna get it: Humiliation for sure, on that the farm? You can bet it.
> >Phrases like "a shit eating grin" are most feeble
> Not in this instance. Not that you would be able to discern it, but, > in this instance, the phrase “shit-eating grin” is meant to be taken > literally, along with its usual usage of meaning a smug, self- > confident expression indicating a ridiculously arrogant sureness.
He never met a cliche he didn't like The little man inside your head. He finds them on the Hackney Pike And he is like to hug them in his bed. "A shit-eating grin" is an ugly American phrase A rural phrase, a yokel's locution: It hath no beauty and it doth deface My replies, so full of class and education. But when in Rome we do as Romans do And after they dined, 'tis said by the scholar They'd their Falernian and their dinner would spew In the Tiber down by a darkling holler. To sup with the devil one needs a long spoon To dine with a fool, all it takes is a full moon.
> >A way to end a poem Phillipic
> A fine way to do so, if I do say so myself – why not use insulting > language in response to insulting language?
A fine thing to say, that you're "insulted" My goodness, you crawled in here And it's Michael you then assaulted Trying to spread bile, lies, hatred and fear. Hoist you were by your own petard: Now dangle up there, I'll skip the obvious rhyme, And instead say that it must be hard To be hoisten'd up there for so long a time. The obvious rhyme was "retard" but I'll show some sympathy Some courtesy and some restraint, Giving all my well-learned politesse and also some empathy I'll not the mentally challenged so attaint! You have no dignity to be insulted So show patience with the humiliation that's resulted.
> >Neither image nor metaphor as is needful
> The image is quite appropriate to you in both its senses, since you > are a smug and arrogant person, and you came into this thread with > turds dripping from your mouth.
My goodness he's still fixilated On his favorite subject, which is shite I'd hasard chap is pixilated Dead drunk: in his head he ain't right!. I came into this thread dropping more words That occur in your child's lexicon Your own responses were for the birds You don't belong on Parnassus nor on Helicon. This bugged you it bewitched you And now through the swamp you go Pursuing a sprite who of old hath knew How to get you to shoot yourself in the toe. This contest is most droll, and amusing It's also one that you are assuredly losing.
> >They self-refer to the poet non-Homeric
> This is simply nonsense here, meant only to supply a rhyme, but > obviously making no sense.
My goodness you have found a new occupation Having failed at the sonnety game "Literary critic" is your self-appointed station But you remain most hopelessly lame. Yes, they self-refer, I would prefer To say to you you're no Homer Even if to Simpson I refer, Instead at best you're Private Pyle, comma Gomer. And I am your top sergeant, major, Come to square you away by precept: I'll thank ye to exchange, to trade your License poetic for anything save money except. My goodness this is shootin' fish in a barrel But much more fun and quite a rare haul!
> >You are not worth the promising, Dominic > >You are not worth a promise keeping. > >You are not worth this poetic trick > >Which is sure to have you weeping. > >I leave for convenience and reasons of state > > I return when it amuses me to do so: > >I leave because to waste time I hate > >I return when I need a chuckle and an ho, ho ho. > >Deal with it, chump, brood on it, lump: > >Taste the sweetness of contempt > >I have returned to make you jump > >Should you bad verse again attempt. > >I am your worst nightmare, you'll never me ride > >Your Mither's calling, hie the home to their hide. > >Oh Dominic, don't even try: you don't > >Even have the basic talent, or the facility > >With words you are the merest cunt
> That’s supposed to be a rhyme? I can understand that you’ve gotten > sand in your vagina, but can’t you do any better than this? > .
> >Which is my "term of art" for "lack of ability".
> Who cares about your “terms of art”, > When your poor “poems” are let loose to beg. > You wouldn’t know art from a mushrooming fart, > Or the shit that is flowing down your leg.
> >Your pseudo sonnet, it is a psonnet > >In which the p is silent along with any sense
> It made sense to you – enough sense that it caused you to let loose > with great streams of turds posing as poetry, and claiming to smell as > sweet.
> >It is written only to make a rhyme
> No. It was written to reply to your idiocy, and to compel you to > respond with even more pathetic idiocy and even worse poetic efforts. > You jumped when I called and performed quite as expected. Thanks > little parrot spin.
There was a homunculus named Hughes Prone to fits, starts, brain farts and fugues He flew away one day And away did he stay And we certainly applauded that news.
On Nov 23, 11:37 am, spinoza1111 <spinoza1...@yahoo.com> wrote:
> Dominic writes
> > This is very poor. You are using the word “hell” just to make a simple > > rhyme, and it has no relationship to anything in the rest of the poem.
> If you can't write a bloody sonnet admit it > Don't become a critic, it's a dodge:
No, it isn't a dodge. Your attempts at poetry show that you are not talented in that area.
> Just leave the field in shame, and quit it > Go back to your pathetic little lodge.
My pathetic little lodge is a home at the beach that is appraised at over a million dollars. Where do you live in Hong Kong?
> As to rhyming for convenience, some of us don't strain:
You certainly do, and the strain is quite obvious.
> Humorous verse is full of stunts, > And rhyming that's intended to cause pain
You're failing in that regard. In fact, I'm getting quite a laugh out of how easy it is to get you enraged.
> Especially to humor-challenged cunts.
You're repeating yourself, and you are not at all humorous. Your bloated opinion of your self is funny but not intentional. Repeating yourself? How nice. It shows your nincompoopish incompetence. It shows you're running out of fuel. It shows you have no brains, no cunning and no sense.
> The fact is at this level you cannot write > And the fact is you attacked a fellow human being
I should hope I don't write at your piss-poor level, little parrot spin. Where did I attack a fellow human being. I merely asked Michael Martin to share an example of some of his poetry that evoked beauty. If he is the reincarnation of Shakespeare, as he claims (and as you have steadfastly refused to recognize) then I have the right to ask whether or not he possesses any of the talents that Shakespeare possessed. There was no attack involved at all, merely a question. Michael apparently did not wish to share, and I did not press him any further on the subject.
> In my book this gives me an unalienable right
I'm sure it does. Of course, you consider yourself to be some knight errant riding in to save the day. Your delusions of grandeur are plain for all to see.
> To poetically take aim at your old bean. > If you can't stand the heat get out of the kitchen > This discussion you for certain ain't enrichin'.
If you think your attempts at poetry have anything to do with enrichment you are barking mad. I pull the string and you jump.
> > >He runs out of steam by "a sad refrain", > > >And like an ape in the zoo we know so well
> > What zoo do we know so well.
> The zoo of hell do we know well, so well: > It's full of interesting and curious beasts > Hourly ringeth there a solemn knell > For the beasts to sing of that which feasts. > That which lurches to be born again > On a darkling plain, to a nighted city > Which hath the innocent name of Bethlehem > The one in Pennsylvania, more's the pity. > You log on here to insult your fellow man > Losing even the name of man in this crusade > Trogdolyte you become and an also-ran > A squeaking gibbering Internet shade. > Meet the beast at the feast tomorrow at midnight > It is sure to scare you, and may even set you right.
Yawn. More puerile garbage. I pull the string and the little parrot spin attempts to sing. But he can only squawk. Beware, you are a parrot, and I am more a hawk.
> > >He can only throw shite back in hopes of stain.
> > You’re the one who first shit in this thread, > > Yet now you run and condemn the trick. > > Turds flowed from the mouth in your febrile head, > > Coprophagia could be what is making you so sick.
> My we are a Johnnie one-note flute > My we can't get off the subject > Play your pipe: tootly toot > You obsessions are naught but abject.
You're the one who first flung the stuff. Now it seems you can't handle it when it is thrown back in your face (from which it first emanated). Your rage is quite apparent for all to see. It is causing you to reply every time I pull your strings, you little puppet parrot.
> Your anger's showing, indeed, it's glowing
Not at all. I am having quite a bit of fun at your expense.
> Like a lump of coal in your Christmas puddin': > But it's dragon's teeth that you are sowing > And a whirlwind you'll be sure a-reapin'.
This is really dreadful. I understand that you're doing this on the fly (like the tiny little parrot that your are) but this is horrendous.
> Post on little man my reply shall be > Better than thee can hope to fashion > For I am the spirit of punitive poetry > Come to be thy condign thrashing. > You're asking for trouble, and you're gonna get it: > Humiliation for sure, on that the farm? You can bet it.
I doubt that I'll be getting any trouble from the likes of you. Your impotent threats are as funny as your flaccid poems.
> > >Phrases like "a shit eating grin" are most feeble
> > Not in this instance. Not that you would be able to discern it, but, > > in this instance, the phrase “shit-eating grin” is meant to be taken > > literally, along with its usual usage of meaning a smug, self- > > confident expression indicating a ridiculously arrogant sureness.
> He never met a cliche he didn't like
My use of the phrase was not a cliche, as I've already demonstrated. I don't expect you'll understand.
> The little man inside your head. > He finds them on the Hackney Pike > And he is like to hug them in his bed. > "A shit-eating grin" is an ugly American phrase > A rural phrase, a yokel's locution: > It hath no beauty and it doth deface > My replies, so full of class and education.
Says the person who first flung turds in this thread.
> But when in Rome we do as Romans do
Speaking of cliches...
> And after they dined, 'tis said by the scholar > They'd their Falernian and their dinner would spew > In the Tiber down by a darkling holler. > To sup with the devil one needs a long spoon > To dine with a fool, all it takes is a full moon.
I don't usually dine with fools, but I'm having a bit of fun right now dining on your anger.
> > >A way to end a poem Phillipic
> > A fine way to do so, if I do say so myself – why not use insulting > > language in response to insulting language?
> A fine thing to say, that you're "insulted"
I didn't say that I was insulted. Can't you read with anything approaching comprehension?
> My goodness, you crawled in here > And it's Michael you then assaulted
Assaulted? More ridiculous assumptions from you. You should really learn to read.
> Trying to spread bile, lies, hatred and fear.
What lies, bile, hatred or fear did I attempt to spread. You're engaging in projection.
> Hoist you were by your own petard: > Now dangle up there, I'll skip the obvious rhyme,
You're the one dancing every time I move the strings.
> And instead say that it must be hard > To be hoisten'd up there for so long a time. > The obvious rhyme was "retard" but I'll show some sympathy > Some courtesy and some restraint, > Giving all my well-learned politesse and also some empathy
Now I get it. When you said that you made classical allusions you were talking about classic rock. How sad.
> I'll not the mentally challenged so attaint! > You have no dignity to be insulted > So show patience with the humiliation that's resulted.
Your high opinion of yourself is not warranted. The only one humiliating himself here is you, demonstrating your uncontrollable anger, whcich compels you to respond every time I pull your string.
> > >Neither image nor metaphor as is needful
> > The image is quite appropriate to you in both its senses, since you > > are a smug and arrogant person, and you came into this thread with > > turds dripping from your mouth.
> My goodness he's still fixilated > On his favorite subject, which is shite
You're the one who brought the subject up. Is your short-term memory failing you? The fact that I comment upon your reference does not mean that I am fixated on anything at all.
> I'd hasard chap is pixilated > Dead drunk: in his head he ain't right!. > I came into this thread dropping more words > That occur in your child's lexicon > Your own responses were for the birds > You don't belong on Parnassus nor on Helicon. > This bugged you it bewitched you > And now through the swamp you go > Pursuing a sprite who of old hath knew > How to get you to shoot yourself in the toe. > This contest is most droll, and amusing > It's also one that you are assuredly losing.
The fact that you think I am "losing" something is quite pathetic. It illustrates how deluded you are in thinking that internet flame wars are some type of battle and that you are the champion of the oppressed. You poetry stinks. Every time you post some more of your doggerel, I get a good laugh at it. Please continue in this vein, bleeding your anger onto the page, ultimately displaying how anemic your work is.
> > >They self-refer to the poet non-Homeric
> > This is simply nonsense here, meant only to supply a rhyme, but > > obviously making no sense.
> My goodness you have found a new occupation > Having failed at the sonnety game
I haven't attempted the "sonnety" game. I did post a poem that has got your knickers in a twist, so, in that, I accomplished what I wanted and was successful. You jumped when I pulled your string, and you're still jumping. Jump some more.
> "Literary critic" is your self-appointed station > But you remain most hopelessly lame. > Yes, they self-refer, I would prefer > To say to you you're no Homer > Even if to Simpson I refer, > Instead at best you're Private Pyle, comma Gomer. > And I am your top sergeant, major, > Come to square you away by precept: > I'll thank ye to exchange, to trade your > License poetic for anything save money except. > My goodness this is shootin' fish in a barrel > But much more fun and quite a rare haul!
Hilariously bad. Your efforts get worse as we go along. Please jump some more. I'm sure you will. You can't stop once you get started, as you have no
...
> This is very poor. You are using the word “hell” just to make a simple > rhyme, and it has no relationship to anything in the rest of the poem.
If you can't write a bloody sonnet admit it Don't become a critic, it's a dodge: Just leave the field in shame, and quit it Go back to your pathetic little lodge. As to rhyming for convenience, some of us don't strain: Humorous verse is full of stunts, And rhyming that's intended to cause pain Especially to humor-challenged cunts. The fact is at this level you cannot write And the fact is you attacked a fellow human being In my book this gives me an unalienable right To poetically take aim at your old bean. If you can't stand the heat get out of the kitchen This discussion you for certain ain't enrichin'.
Nilges, that hypocrite, whose fest'ring bile Generates only bilge, could no more write A sonnet than a chicken could endite A learned treatise on the infantile And narcissistic rage that shapes his style, Or fills it with that automatic spite And sad ambition to seem erudite That gratifies his readers with a smile.
Impotent in his rage, he knows he can No more write verse than fish could climb a tree; He knows his drivel doesn't even scan And knows he'll never find the remedy. This emperor knows he is a naked man Whom Failure beckons towards eternity.
spinoza1111 wrote: > On Nov 23, 11:32 am, Dominic Hughes <mah...@aol.com> wrote: >> On Nov 22, 10:08 pm,spinoza1111<spinoza1...@yahoo.com> wrote:
>>> You are not worth the promising, Dominic >>> You are not worth a promise keeping. >>> You are not worth this poetic trick >>> Which is sure to have you weeping. >> Wrong, as usual, you little parrot; >> by the way, your verse has little, if any, merit. >> The only thing here that might cause me to weep, >> Is the laughter engendered by your "poetry", >> You little parrot creep.
> Repeating a metaphor twice? How nice > It shows your nincompoopish incompetence > It shows you're running out of fuel, fool unwise > It shows you have no brains, no cunning and no sense. > And you turn around around and around > In a narrowing, not widening gyre > When to shit you return, liking the sound > You're just preparing your scribbles for the fire. > "You little parrot creep?" You're putting me, to sleep > This is an insult adolescent > It's obvious that you've run out of ideas, and weep > Having lost the sense, the trail, and scent. > Dominic, these poems of yours are fugues most horrible > Flights from the reality that you can't write above the level > terrible. >>> I leave for convenience and reasons of state >>> I return when it amuses me to do so: >>> I leave because to waste time I hate >> Nice construction there...your poetry is as bad, >> as your friend lacksanity is mad.
>>> I return when I need a chuckle and an ho, ho ho. >>> Deal with it, chump, brood on it, lump: >> I'm not brooding on anything, spin, >> but look at the frenzied state that you're in. >> Four crappy poems (and counting?) in reply, >> To my one but brief poetic try.
> Oh why maudit do you even essay to try? > Your squibs escape you into thin air > They fly not high and then they die > They've not even the sonnet form so fair. > You've regressed to doggerel childish couplets > The quatrain it makes your brain to strain > Because you can only part of the time rhyme rhymelets > And cannot hold a thought four lines entrain. > You're losing this fight you lost it long ago > Thus ever to Internet thugs who like to assault people > They shall on my sword struggle, being my foe > They are not men they are indeed sheeple. > Down dog down and fiends, gather around > Drag him from Parnassus we like not his sound.
"a while he stood, expecting Their universal shout and high applause To fill his ear, when contrary he hears On all sides, from innumerable tongues A dismal universal hiss, the sound of public scorn."
>>> Taste the sweetness of contempt >>> I have returned to make you jump >> I'm sitting down, and laughing at your lack of wit. >> You have returned, and now you're tasting shit.
>>> Should you bad verse again attempt. >>> I am your worst nightmare, you'll never me ride >> Some more of spin's sophomoric tries at verse. >> Your poems or your delusions, I can't tell which are worse.
>>> Your Mither's calling, hie the home to their [sic] hide. >> That's the best effort you can make?
On Nov 24, 7:20 am, "Peter G." <Montive...@REMOVETHISbigpond.com> wrote:
Here's Peter G, chiming in but tuneless His "poem" is it not even a sonnet? No, it is not...this clownish chef is clueless A fallen souffle with cheese on top of it! This failed confection asks for rejection This cake is flat right out of the oven Fit gift only for pariah dogs and masterless men In charity, a gesture eleemosynarien. Dear Peter G, verse ne'er will scan for thee Because you've long lost any sense of rhythm In dusty vanity's pedantry, an ersatz poetry And the sour delights of lonely onanism. O Peter Groves, get thee hence to a desert idle And chant your lifeless hymns to your lifeless idol.
When Critic vile is out of things to say, He's sure to say, "it doesn't scan": Producin' Confusion is his fame...it is his way Because he hopes to show he is no ordinary man. What this neglects, of course, is that verse Is not supposed to be too regular Chromatic scordatura makes it better, not worse Like life itself it shows us mortals what we are. Not made like automata or like a clockwork orange Dully to seek only what's been already sought Seeking the regularity of a plasticine sponge. Something they can measure without thought. Dull fellows who turn nasty over time Are insensate to poetry and dead even to rhyme.
> > This is very poor. You are using the word “hell” just to make a simple > > rhyme, and it has no relationship to anything in the rest of the poem.
> If you can't write a bloody sonnet admit it > Don't become a critic, it's a dodge: > Just leave the field in shame, and quit it > Go back to your pathetic little lodge. > As to rhyming for convenience, some of us don't strain: > Humorous verse is full of stunts, > And rhyming that's intended to cause pain > Especially to humor-challenged cunts. > The fact is at this level you cannot write > And the fact is you attacked a fellow human being > In my book this gives me an unalienable right > To poetically take aim at your old bean. > If you can't stand the heat get out of the kitchen > This discussion you for certain ain't enrichin'.
Nilges is a spondee, so This start is clumsy. It gets worse. It is formless verse.
> Generates only bilge, could no more write
Germans harden the g Obviously, So "bilge" is nonsense As poetry.
> A sonnet than a chicken could endite > A learned treatise on the infantile > And narcissistic rage that shapes his style,
Makes no sense grammatical Historical, pastorical, or tragical.
> Or fills it with that automatic spite > And sad ambition to seem erudite
A common charge of the failed academic Is that real learning is pretense But beware saying this when the image is the thing itself You're apt to look quite the fool, Hortense.
> That gratifies his readers with a smile.
> Impotent in his rage, he knows he can > No more write verse than fish could climb a tree; > He knows his drivel doesn't even scan
Peter's repeating himself He's run out of gas and suchlike pelf. It's he who can't scan, he's a foolish man.
> And knows he'll never find the remedy. > This emperor knows he is a naked man > Whom Failure beckons towards eternity.
Failure doesn't beckon towards eternity It beckons towards obscurity. Do I have to edit your clumsy verse?
On Nov 22, 9:11 pm, spinoza1111 <spinoza1...@yahoo.com> wrote:
> Oh Dominic, don't even try: you don't > Even have the basic talent, or the facility > With words you are the merest cunt > Which is my "term of art" for "lack of ability". > Your pseudo sonnet, it is a psonnet > In which the p is silent along with any sense > It is written only to make a rhyme > It is footless and foolish and a pure expence > Of spirit in a waste of shame. > Search oh search your online rhymonary > I shall chortle at your lack of fame: > For it is to me one and the same > With shame, go haem, to thy old Mither: > On the vine has your effort been seen to wither.
MM: Line 3.....
Here Dominic is trying to prove his manhood and you wrote that!
> > > This got emended in the HLAS Tavern after being repeated drunkenly by > > > literary monkeys as follows, providentially fixing the meter PG > > > soberly objects to.
> > > >> > Anti-Strats
> > > >> > Oxfordians [rescind the death] in Eddie's lifespan, > > > >> > For it's necessary to [Artfully] date [those later] plays[;] > > > >> [Plus] Eddie was a [farting] part of that Noble Clan; > > > >> > [and] Spenser had him under his perfect gaze.
> > > >> > Marlovians do think they are [shrewd] scholars[,] > > > >> > But, faking his [Fairy] death is not established[;] > > > >> > Thus, this [Faker] theory gets whoops and hollers! > > > >> > He could not remain, surely it was [devoutly] wished.
> > > >> > Baconians [prefer to] say he was Word-Master. > > > >> > No disputing that, but look at his [cryptic] style[;] > > > >> > He prophesied, like a [Elizabethan] Holy Pastor. > > > >> > His fame was prose, intended to beguile.
> > > >> > These [attribution] candidates get lots of attention, > > > >> > But, the [author's] canon was Strat Man's invention.
> > > >> > Michael Martin
> > > >> This is extarordinary: fourteen decasyllables, and not a pentameter among > > > >> them; you'd expect one or two by chance. And yet it shows evident signs of > > > >> strain, as though being twisted into some imagined pattern: "Marlovians do > > > >> think they are scholars".
> > > >> The really weird thing is that if we take a much shorter passage of prose > > > >> from his previous post we find several chance pentameters, all in unforced > > > >> idiomatic Engish: > > > >> . > > > >> "Marlowe and Shakespeare must have been well known" > > > >> "Others were likely trying to ride their coattails." > > > >> "which lacked the loftiness of Shakespeare's plays." > > > >> "It's similar to hit movies of today,"
> > > >> There's a fascinating paradox here.
> > > >> Peter G.
> > > >MM: > > > >Speaking of paradoxes, Peter G., I think you're a scholar, but did you > > > >know that there are "rhythmic variations," or exceptions to the > > > >rules? For example, read this:
> > > >*****If you want to know something about metre, don't go to Wikipedia -- > > > >that's amateur hour. Try the work of a published expert in the field:
> > > >Groves, Peter L., <Strange Music: The Metre of the English Heroic Line>, ELS > > > >Monograph Series 74 (Victoria, B.C.: University of Victoria, 1998).
> > > >Groves, Peter L., "Shakespeare's Pentameter and the End of Editing", > > > ><Shakespeare> (Journal of the British Shakespeare Association), 3:2 (2007), > > > >126-42
> > > >Groves, Peter L., "Finding his Feet: Wyatt and the Founding of English > > > >Metre", <Versification: An Electronic Journal of Literary Prosody> 4 (2005) > > > >ISSN 1546-0401 (http://www.arsversificandi.net/current/groves.html)
> > > >Groves, Peter L., "'Knocking a verse on the head': towards a performance > > > >grammar of English verse" in <Metrum, Rhythmus, Performanz>, ed. Christoph > > > >K per (Frankfurt-am-Main: Peter Lang, 2002), 215-228.
> > > >Groves, Peter L., "What Music Lies in the Cold Print": Larkin's Experimental > > > >Metric", <Style> 35(2001):703-23
> > > >Groves, Peter L., "'Water from the Well': the Transmission and Reception of > > > >Chaucer's Metric". <Parergon> n.s. 17 (2000): 51-73
> > > >Groves, Peter L., "The Chomsky of Grub Street: Edward Bysshe and the Triumph > > > >of Classroom Metrics", <Versification: An Electronic Journal of Literary > > > >Prosody> 3 (1999) ISSN 1546-0401 > > > >(http://www.arsversificandi.net/backissues/vol3/essays/groves.html)
> > > >Peter G.
> > MM: > > With all due respect to our scholar and author, Peter Groves, he > > doesn't tell me what to write, nor how to write. I'll throw this out > > for cogitation:
> > From onelook.com
> > Quick definitions (poetry)
> > noun: literature in metrical form
> > noun: any communication resembling poetry in beauty or the evocation > > of feeling
> > MM: > > All the members of Tavern HLAS can readily see that Groves is more > > congruent with definition #1, while I'm more interested in the > > communication of "feeling," and am more congruent with #2.
> > I think most of your great poets, Whitman, Dickinson, Shakespeare, > > Donne, etc., often wrote congruent with #2. We might as well eat > > adult food sometimes, and forego the baby food, IMO.
> > If Shakespeare had to spend an inordinate amount of time getting the > > meter perfect, then the canon might not have been as large as it is. > > Some sacrifices have to be made, sometimes. The great poets see the > > end, and what they write is a means to an end. The greatest poets > > have tried to convey meaning, not necessarily metrical perfection.
> > Michael Martin
> Do you have any communications resembling poetry (in beauty or the > evocation of feeling) that you'd be willing to share, because I > haven't seen anything like that from you yet?
> Dom
Dom loves to challenge many folks. His attempts are bad, sorry jokes. Ol' Spin is winning big, Dom's oinking like a pig, Dom's looking like a funny hoax.
On Nov 24, 7:38 am, ignoto <ign...@tarpit.org> wrote:>
> "a while he stood, expecting > Their universal shout and high applause > To fill his ear, when contrary he hears > On all sides, from innumerable tongues > A dismal universal hiss, the sound > of public scorn."
What's this? A dismal universal hiss of scorn? What I hear is a few born losers with broadband Children lost in a field of bitter corn Assaulting Michael because it's his humanity they can't stand. You show more about yourselves than you know: Reveal you your innermost fears: Your own fear of exposure and your secret sorrow The stain of undried playground tears. You've never dealt with being what you are: born losers You've manufactured an identity Out of being little more than mere computer users Or publishing perishable papers pulped full with pedantry. You scorn that which is not a universal irony But your goat-song has long taken itself too seriously.
On Nov 24, 2:36 am, Dominic Hughes <mah...@aol.com> wrote:
> Hilariously bad. Your efforts get worse as we go along. Please jump
Oh say can you say where your ass is today? Hilariously bad? Easy to say but harder to prove. The point is that even with pain you cannot sustain A poetic thought; in verse you can't move. You deny you're in a contest, but I say you are And you're losing every time I sign in This is a Fight and yes this is war And it's one I propose to be victor: to win. Don't fuck with your fellow man anymore Michael's more of a man than are you Don't piss me off and don't make me sore Or I will make you to weep and to rue. I and my fellows are ministers of fate: Flagrantly fighting your foul fool's hate.
spinoza1111 wrote: > On Nov 24, 7:38 am, ignoto <ign...@tarpit.org> wrote:
> What's this? A dismal universal hiss of scorn? > What I hear is a few born losers with broadband > Children lost in a field of bitter corn > Assaulting Michael because it's his humanity they can't stand. > You show more about yourselves than you know: > Reveal your your innermost fears: > Your own fear of exposure and your secret sorrow > The stain of undried playground tears. > You've never dealt with being what you are: born losers > You've manufactured an identity > Out of being little more than mere computer users > Or publishing perishable papers pulped full with pedantry. > You scorn that which is not a universal irony > But your goat-song has long taken itself too seriously.
Oh how Spin hath in his slow labour hit the worst in verse any man ever writ the Castalian now is of muses bare as McGonagal crowns his vapid heir
On Nov 24, 4:21 pm, ignoto <ign...@tarpit.org> wrote:
> Oh how Spin hath in his slow labour hit > the worst in verse any man ever writ
Makes no sense. Straineth for a rhyme, runs out of time.
> the Castalian now is of muses bare
Castilian? Get me rewrite!
> as McGonagal crowns his vapid heir
A good line in search of a mate
"As McGonagal crowns his vapid heir The Furies beset Ignoto, pulling his thinning hair"
Ignoto don't he know? His own ass from his elbow? Well, actually, no. His poetry is a series of stops, It starts! It stops! It don't fit! It merely farts! So Let us have no more of these leavings and such slops. He labors for an hour, with online rhyming lexicon Hoping for a spot of fame: But never shall he Mount Parnassus alight upon His doggerel don't hunt and his poetry is lame. A fool he is to even try, he doesn't even see The laughter of the learned loudly doth resound As he sifts liquid leavings down from the bitter tree Into a foul and pestilent yellow brown pond. A foutra for this poet *maudit*, put him in the stocks: He is no Prometheus, he don't deserve the rocks.
Edward G. Nilges 24 Nov 2009. Moral rights asserted, so bite my crank.
On Nov 24, 4:21 pm, ignoto <ign...@tarpit.org> wrote:
> Oh how Spin hath in his slow labour hit
"Slow labour?" It is 2039 China time this instant I'm writing extempore...neither slow nor in haste I shall show you how my lad to write a poem re-entrant In modern sonnet form, your time not to waste. Each quatrain is stand-alone it's a complete thought Which descends from on high like an angel Or if it's the register satiric you've sought Then summon it from Hell and the Devil. There it is now express it in words appositive To your theme be it high, or dark and low If high as the sky you'd best avoid the negative If lower than whale shit, why just ... so. It's two oh forty three by Shewsbury clock Four minutes, you must be in shock.
A proofread and some correction, Then it's hie ho off you go having been subject, again, to humiliation.
It is, of course, amusing that this buffoon's absurd responses to my sonnet manage to corroborate just about everything it says about him, including the facts that he doesn't know what a sonnet is ("Here's Peter G, chiming in but tuneless / His "poem" is it not even a sonnet?"), doesn't know what a pentameter is and (apparently) gets confused by English syntax of only moderate complexity.
But this is all too easy, and at the same time tiresome -- a little like arguing with a five-year old.
Peter G.
"spinoza1111" <spinoza1...@yahoo.com> wrote in message
> > This is very poor. You are using the word “hell” just to make a simple > > rhyme, and it has no relationship to anything in the rest of the poem.
> If you can't write a bloody sonnet admit it > Don't become a critic, it's a dodge: > Just leave the field in shame, and quit it > Go back to your pathetic little lodge. > As to rhyming for convenience, some of us don't strain: > Humorous verse is full of stunts, > And rhyming that's intended to cause pain > Especially to humor-challenged cunts. > The fact is at this level you cannot write > And the fact is you attacked a fellow human being > In my book this gives me an unalienable right > To poetically take aim at your old bean. > If you can't stand the heat get out of the kitchen > This discussion you for certain ain't enrichin'.
Nilges is a spondee, so This start is clumsy. It gets worse. It is formless verse.
> Generates only bilge, could no more write
Germans harden the g Obviously, So "bilge" is nonsense As poetry.
> A sonnet than a chicken could endite > A learned treatise on the infantile > And narcissistic rage that shapes his style,
Makes no sense grammatical Historical, pastorical, or tragical.
> Or fills it with that automatic spite > And sad ambition to seem erudite
A common charge of the failed academic Is that real learning is pretense But beware saying this when the image is the thing itself You're apt to look quite the fool, Hortense.
> That gratifies his readers with a smile.
> Impotent in his rage, he knows he can > No more write verse than fish could climb a tree; > He knows his drivel doesn't even scan
Peter's repeating himself He's run out of gas and suchlike pelf. It's he who can't scan, he's a foolish man.
> And knows he'll never find the remedy. > This emperor knows he is a naked man > Whom Failure beckons towards eternity.
Failure doesn't beckon towards eternity It beckons towards obscurity. Do I have to edit your clumsy verse?
On Nov 24, 3:00 am, spinoza1111 <spinoza1...@yahoo.com> wrote:
> On Nov 24, 2:36 am, Dominic Hughes <mah...@aol.com> wrote:
> > Hilariously bad. Your efforts get worse as we go along. Please jump
> Oh say can you say where your ass is today?
Yes, sitting here this morning and laughing at you with your head up your ass.
> Hilariously bad? Easy to say but harder to prove. > The point is that even with pain you cannot sustain
Laughable construction. You stink at this. You seem to believe that quantity trumps quality.
> A poetic thought; in verse you can't move.
More lousy construction.
> You deny you're in a contest, but I say you are > And you're losing every time I sign in > This is a Fight and yes this is war Not a rhyme. > And it's one I propose to be victor: to win.
Another poorly constructed phrase.
> Don't fuck with your fellow man anymore
More silly and baseless accusations.
> Michael's more of a man than are you
I sincerely doubt that. Do you know his history with women?
> Don't piss me off and don't make me sore > Or I will make you to weep and to rue.
Empty, boastful threats...you need psychiatric help.
> I and my fellows are ministers of fate: > Flagrantly fighting your foul fool's hate.
What fellows are those? The voices in your head? I don't hate anyone, but you seem to be motivated by hatred and bitterness.
You didn't disappoint me...except, of course, with your doggerel-level poetry. But, then again, that causes me to laugh at how bad your poetry is, so it isn't a total waste. I commanded you to jump, little parot spin, and you jumped at my command. If this is a war, it seems that I am winning, since, every time I pull the strings, you jump to do my bidding.
It’s obvious you’ve got your panties in a wad, With your baseless assault accusations. You’re like a tremulous pea in a pod, Suffering perilous infestations.
Your sensibilities are not masculine, You cry like a paltry hen in some pain. Your shrill whine is not even feminine, If you had one nut you’d still have one to gain.
Your sheep-like bleats are patently untrue, Little perjuries that have been suborned. You’re still simmering in your bitter stew, You’re a little woman shunned and scorned.
Oh spin, poor spin, the more you remonstrate, You only spill your blood -- you menstruate.
****************************** Your poetry is impotent, a limp and bloodless tool, Your flaccid pen is not able to compete. You should surrender, admit to defeat, But you’d rather keep playing the total fool.
For me, I’ve had enough of this game. Since I’ve exposed your perturbation, You’re out of your orbit, Like some uncontrollable, somersaulting Korbut. For you, feel free to abuse your rag-doll toy, Continue to play with yourself in shame. It’s quite obvious that you enjoy, Your own mental masturbation.
Poor spin, quit this, and go back to your steely dan, Where you can pleasure yourself, and still pretend to be a man.
Jump, little parrot spin. I command you to respond with more bad poetry, and you will obey me. Only a fool would choose to do so, but you are a fool, so you will comply.
> > > > This got emended in the HLAS Tavern after being repeated drunkenly by > > > > literary monkeys as follows, providentially fixing the meter PG > > > > soberly objects to.
> > > > >> > Anti-Strats
> > > > >> > Oxfordians [rescind the death] in Eddie's lifespan, > > > > >> > For it's necessary to [Artfully] date [those later] plays[;] > > > > >> [Plus] Eddie was a [farting] part of that Noble Clan; > > > > >> > [and] Spenser had him under his perfect gaze.
> > > > >> > Marlovians do think they are [shrewd] scholars[,] > > > > >> > But, faking his [Fairy] death is not established[;] > > > > >> > Thus, this [Faker] theory gets whoops and hollers! > > > > >> > He could not remain, surely it was [devoutly] wished.
> > > > >> > Baconians [prefer to] say he was Word-Master. > > > > >> > No disputing that, but look at his [cryptic] style[;] > > > > >> > He prophesied, like a [Elizabethan] Holy Pastor. > > > > >> > His fame was prose, intended to beguile.
> > > > >> > These [attribution] candidates get lots of attention, > > > > >> > But, the [author's] canon was Strat Man's invention.
> > > > >> > Michael Martin
> > > > >> This is extarordinary: fourteen decasyllables, and not a pentameter among > > > > >> them; you'd expect one or two by chance. And yet it shows evident signs of > > > > >> strain, as though being twisted into some imagined pattern: "Marlovians do > > > > >> think they are scholars".
> > > > >> The really weird thing is that if we take a much shorter passage of prose > > > > >> from his previous post we find several chance pentameters, all in unforced > > > > >> idiomatic Engish: > > > > >> . > > > > >> "Marlowe and Shakespeare must have been well known" > > > > >> "Others were likely trying to ride their coattails." > > > > >> "which lacked the loftiness of Shakespeare's plays." > > > > >> "It's similar to hit movies of today,"
> > > > >> There's a fascinating paradox here.
> > > > >> Peter G.
> > > > >MM: > > > > >Speaking of paradoxes, Peter G., I think you're a scholar, but did you > > > > >know that there are "rhythmic variations," or exceptions to the > > > > >rules? For example, read this:
> > > > >*****If you want to know something about metre, don't go to Wikipedia -- > > > > >that's amateur hour. Try the work of a published expert in the field:
> > > > >Groves, Peter L., <Strange Music: The Metre of the English Heroic Line>, ELS > > > > >Monograph Series 74 (Victoria, B.C.: University of Victoria, 1998).
> > > > >Groves, Peter L., "Shakespeare's Pentameter and the End of Editing", > > > > ><Shakespeare> (Journal of the British Shakespeare Association), 3:2 (2007), > > > > >126-42
> > > > >Groves, Peter L., "Finding his Feet: Wyatt and the Founding of English > > > > >Metre", <Versification: An Electronic Journal of Literary Prosody> 4 (2005) > > > > >ISSN 1546-0401 (http://www.arsversificandi.net/current/groves.html)
> > > > >Groves, Peter L., "'Knocking a verse on the head': towards a performance > > > > >grammar of English verse" in <Metrum, Rhythmus, Performanz>, ed. Christoph > > > > >K per (Frankfurt-am-Main: Peter Lang, 2002), 215-228.
> > > > >Groves, Peter L., "What Music Lies in the Cold Print": Larkin's Experimental > > > > >Metric", <Style> 35(2001):703-23
> > > > >Groves, Peter L., "'Water from the Well': the Transmission and Reception of > > > > >Chaucer's Metric". <Parergon> n.s. 17 (2000): 51-73
> > > > >Groves, Peter L., "The Chomsky of Grub Street: Edward Bysshe and the Triumph > > > > >of Classroom Metrics", <Versification: An Electronic Journal of Literary > > > > >Prosody> 3 (1999) ISSN 1546-0401 > > > > >(http://www.arsversificandi.net/backissues/vol3/essays/groves.html)
> > > > >Peter G.
> > > MM: > > > With all due respect to our scholar and author, Peter Groves, he > > > doesn't tell me what to write, nor how to write. I'll throw this out > > > for cogitation:
> > > From onelook.com
> > > Quick definitions (poetry)
> > > noun: literature in metrical form
> > > noun: any communication resembling poetry in beauty or the evocation > > > of feeling
> > > MM: > > > All the members of Tavern HLAS can readily see that Groves is more > > > congruent with definition #1, while I'm more interested in the > > > communication of "feeling," and am more congruent with #2.
> > > I think most of your great poets, Whitman, Dickinson, Shakespeare, > > > Donne, etc., often wrote congruent with #2. We might as well eat > > > adult food sometimes, and forego the baby food, IMO.
> > > If Shakespeare had to spend an inordinate amount of time getting the > > > meter perfect, then the canon might not have been as large as it is. > > > Some sacrifices have to be made, sometimes. The great poets see the > > > end, and what they write is a means to an end. The greatest poets > > > have tried to convey meaning, not necessarily metrical perfection.
> > > Michael Martin
> > Do you have any communications resembling poetry (in beauty or the > > evocation of feeling) that you'd be willing to share, because I > > haven't seen anything like that from you yet?
> > Dom
> Dom loves to challenge many folks. > His attempts are bad, sorry jokes. > Ol' Spin is winning big, > Dom's oinking like a pig, > Dom's looking like a funny hoax.
> Michael Martin
The self-acclaimed reincarnation of Shakespeare (and Jesus Christ) has finally deigned to share a piece of his brilliant poetry...and all he can produce is this piece of slobbering drivel. Please, Michael, stop embarrassing yourself like this.
> On Nov 22, 9:11 pm, spinoza1111 <spinoza1...@yahoo.com> wrote:
> > Oh Dominic, don't even try: you don't > > Even have the basic talent, or the facility > > With words you are the merest cunt > > Which is my "term of art" for "lack of ability". > > Your pseudo sonnet, it is a psonnet > > In which the p is silent along with any sense > > It is written only to make a rhyme > > It is footless and foolish and a pure expence > > Of spirit in a waste of shame. > > Search oh search your online rhymonary > > I shall chortle at your lack of fame: > > For it is to me one and the same > > With shame, go haem, to thy old Mither: > > On the vine has your effort been seen to wither.
> MM: > Line 3.....
> Here Dominic is trying to prove his manhood and you wrote that!
I don't have to try to prove any such thing as it is taken as a given by everyone who knows me. You, on the other hand, have a history of problems with women (and cats). A squirrel with one nut has more than you, you didn't get the ordinary complement of two.You come off as some hysterical chicken little. Your psyche is warped and brittle. Your mind (if such it can be called) is soft and porous, and lodged 'hind your clitoris. Your head is up your ass, and the voices of your muses....that's just gas.
On Nov 24, 8:45 pm, "Peter G." <Montive...@REMOVETHISbigpond.com> wrote:
> It is, of course, amusing that this buffoon's absurd responses to my sonnet > manage to corroborate just about everything it says about him, including the > facts that he doesn't know what a sonnet is ("Here's Peter G, chiming in but > tuneless / His "poem" is it not even a sonnet?"), doesn't know what a > pentameter is and (apparently) gets confused by English syntax of only > moderate complexity.
It's Peter, on meter: he speaks with a sneer But writes he a check the bank will reject NSF money oh Crikey oh dear, But sic semper pretensus he must surely expect! A trick of the tenured, a plan of the pedant Is sneering and scorn of excellent verse They say "it don't scan" when scan hath it scant, By man with a plan who scores a high first. A secret whispered me by muses numbered three: Laboring through a mere chapter or two Of the ass end of The Norton Anthology Makes Pete a mere master of verbiage...who can't write anew. I've torn him a new asshole, listen to him howl I am Bic pen, da meter master writer, consonant and vowel.
> > > This is very poor. You are using the word “hell” just to make a simple > > > rhyme, and it has no relationship to anything in the rest of the poem.
> > If you can't write a bloody sonnet admit it > > Don't become a critic, it's a dodge: > > Just leave the field in shame, and quit it > > Go back to your pathetic little lodge. > > As to rhyming for convenience, some of us don't strain: > > Humorous verse is full of stunts, > > And rhyming that's intended to cause pain > > Especially to humor-challenged cunts. > > The fact is at this level you cannot write > > And the fact is you attacked a fellow human being > > In my book this gives me an unalienable right > > To poetically take aim at your old bean. > > If you can't stand the heat get out of the kitchen > > This discussion you for certain ain't enrichin'.
> Nilges is a spondee, so > This start is clumsy. > It gets worse. > It is formless verse.
> > Generates only bilge, could no more write
> Germans harden the g > Obviously, > So "bilge" is nonsense > As poetry.
> > A sonnet than a chicken could endite > > A learned treatise on the infantile > > And narcissistic rage that shapes his style,
> Makes no sense grammatical > Historical, pastorical, or tragical.
> > Or fills it with that automatic spite > > And sad ambition to seem erudite
> A common charge of the failed academic > Is that real learning is pretense > But beware saying this when the image is the thing itself > You're apt to look quite the fool, Hortense.
> > That gratifies his readers with a smile.
> > Impotent in his rage, he knows he can > > No more write verse than fish could climb a tree; > > He knows his drivel doesn't even scan
> Peter's repeating himself > He's run out of gas and suchlike pelf. > It's he who can't scan, he's a foolish man.
> > And knows he'll never find the remedy. > > This emperor knows he is a naked man > > Whom Failure beckons towards eternity.
> Failure doesn't beckon towards eternity > It beckons towards obscurity. > Do I have to edit your clumsy verse?
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