Poll: Who Will Be The World Tag Champions!
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View poll results: Who Will Be The World Tag Champions!
Team S&M
5 63%
Team Wee Bangkok 4-phun
3 38%
Voters: 8.
Vote on the overall quality of the two pieces combined, not for which team has your favorite piece, but which team had the better overall two pieces.


I Was Willing (At) The End.

bound, vesselsail cheek-by-jowl upon white-
capped plains, faintly
remaining as far as the vista
disolves into the horizons lowering eye.
Eighty-Six ships set sail into the night, from
within the sable docklands
of your maudlin mouth 'gainst the will
of windmill lashes, flicking
half on, half off; beneath starports where stars-
board carrion clouds and are carried through
jaded under currents, jade in colour,
as they kilter each vessel with a single jibe.

Mnemonic spars pointed to the sky-
as they sunk with a ribcage-
each failing to iterate, "we're not just one
among the Armada. As it was so
purposefully poised upon the tip of your
subtly rippled tongue. She'd say,
"Every receptacle we humans fleet,
depart then moore at the thought of defeat."
While stealing the moisture from my lips,
with a tacit fingertip, motioning
every sunken vessel from my relationship-
wrecked body,
to ascend and puncture my hull.
"Your spirit is all that shall be left among this
apparition armada,
that so acquiescely follow my every word 'till their end.


Aerodymanics, Radio Mechanics, And Lucid Transmissions On Christmas.

a flightless bird,
such sorry sights welcome me home.
The nest,
crumpled hay,
and broken twigs, shift, lay,
fall near the trunk where worms climb through,
the dirt, mud, and snow to reach heaven,
dried out.
Just food.
Time out, a nose to the corner.
Her tears smeared the paint.
I’ll have to re-touch it tomorrow.

Radio mechanics,
a jittered buzz, thousands of bees
through millions of satellites.
Laser-guided missiles,
cupid’s new arrow, one too many and
my body is full of holes. I can't drink,
Without my words spilling out.
Social drought, a timeless party.
The clocks keep ticking, can I fix them?
A disjointed embodiment. Close together,
but nearly one.
Almost two,
But so much for me.

Lucid transmissions;
such blank clouds, as marionettes will
puppet about, so will the sky.
A new morning, a new hand to squeeze.
Soft lights, sat alone on fire,
An onyx tongue,
Embryo lips, a new born love.
Can you be birthed through my
Lucid transmissions?


Team Wee Bangkok 4-phun

Why December 21st Was Better Than 95% of the Junior Class [Wreaths->Wraiths->Memory]

I mean—
The parking lot is full of litter so I try to hurry through
But when I reach the automatic doors I pause and
Place my hand over a green, chapped, wreath, white with adhesive Christmas.
In the foreground chainsaws sparkle beats through metal hemlock;
Smoldering wraiths fly out of my mouth and I smile and turn to remember why I’m not an artist:

December 21st, 3:08 PM.

Beauty means—
Empty the souvenir shot glass onto the wrapping paper and watch the color swirl;
—in with the tinsel—in with pining pupils—
Out with the vanilla veins, tapioca roots—eyelashes—
We are stealing straws and, I’m afraid I’m scared of what
Beauty means—

December 21st, 3:09 PM.

I mean—
I dust the dusk off the brown cherry eyes—but they only stare, glazed, at the decorated orbs in the sky,
I cradle the dying circle of wrapped leaves and heave them up to the hook. In the foreground
Sparks of ice freeze to whirring festive daggers, purring broken gibberish
To rattle the westbound evergreen needles—you still say that I am an artist and I still don’t buy it.

December 21st, 3:10 PM.

Art means—
We are burning haze
Choked up by the Gold leaf coating our throats with silver fruit,
We are steam—
Coming from playful hands fighting one another
Over dreams. We are beings of steam—
Coming from four longing lips dripping tea leaves
Onto ‘love, your secret Santa’ and seductress cardboard.
We breathe vapor onto one another and, I’m afraid I’m scared of what
Art means—

December 21st, 3:11 PM

I mean—
I take up my trowel to the chorus of falling foliage
And extinguish the spray-on Wreath with soil—it reeks of Christmas—
Tinsel cuts locks out of my hair until they lay a curly crimson against the plastic Albertson’s bags
Floating like snowflakes in the background—no two bags are the same.

December 21st, 3:12 PM

Beauty meant memories. [Beauty means memories]
Art meant memories. [Art means memories]
No two bags are the same. But I remember them.
No wreath, no tree, no voice is ever the same. But I remember them.
We'll never have yesterday again. But I'll remember December 21st 2006 forever, all four hours of it.

Well what do you know Hilary,
I guess I am an artist, huh?
I mean—who knew?


To Cemetery Dawn, You Will Forever Be Loved

I dipped my lead in acid to stare and watch expression
Run to the lights of New York Square. To lose
Myself in the lava and ash of poetry saturating
my mind in the crevices burnt into the ground
Into Temporal Square.
Into Chinatown.
Into the High scholar’s mind.
Where I turned my lead into heroine hospitals for a fix.
So I could fly, fly to the wine drunken jumpers of Washington.
Yelling, mouth shuddering, battered bleak of theory, at
Brooklyn Bridge, at the Bronx, at the white wigs of ancestry.
Into Crusades.
Into Jefferson.
Into a knight’s shield.
To break my legs to the lords of Christianity, to the doctors of a fix
To a pimp seeking sex breathing in the haze of Mexico City.
I twist my arms to Madison Avenue, to Second Street
Where love was found in the back seat of an Avenger
For Cemetery Dawn,
You will forever be loved.

wow didn't expect that

What do the runner-ups score. Is it 4pts or 3pts since theres only two in the final?
Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.
Last edited by The Hurt Within at Jan 19, 2007,