Poll: Votes for the best piece(s)!
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View poll results: Votes for the best piece(s)!
DarkSlateBlue
7 47%
DarkOliveGreen
4 27%
Black
11 73%
Blue
5 33%
Voters: 15.
#1
Yes, these are finally up! So here's how it goes. As you guys can see, you have multiple votes here. All 3 with the most votes carry on to the semi-finals. That's saying we eliminate one piece per polls here in the quarters. We'll go through the same thing again in semi-finals, before having a 4-way final! For other specifications, see the Grand Championship Thread!. Points for the finals are 6/4/3/2 !

Matchups have been randomly determined. I actually did cut pieces of paper and picked them out of my beloved melon hat . Polls opened 5 days! Get voting!!!

Contestants, let me know if anything is wrong with font, etc.

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Conjunction Junction, What's Your Function


Tip
of the
iceberg
she said.

She was wrong.

It was everything
all at once. Coat, hat
and scarf left right inside
the door. I would have
proposed a toast, had I
had a glass and fork.

Two short years
are now equal to a
lifetime, for as long
as we both shall live.
For as long as you both
shall live.

It's only half of a country
she said,
as she stepped onto
the plane. A heart that
has yet to witness
adulthood, a naivety
in close grasp of
a brand new name.

Onto the backburner.
On with the back breaking.
Sorry if I don't have
the charm. Sorry if
your second thought
is committed to
the west.

I'm sure
her waking hour has
been spent with
all the best. I'm sure
she'll soon grow tired
of asking me for
second chances.

It's her beauty
that has been lost.
It's her voice that
will echo a stranger.

Don't count me out.
Sometime's to see
the true beauty, all
you have to do is
just shake off
the dust.




The Chef With The Big Hands Always Get The Proportions Wrong

“Get out!
Can’t you see I’m
right in the middle of something?”
“Oh”
The sweat, the smell, the stains.
He’s definitely scarred.

He fumbles for words
mumbling something about going out.
“Don’t lie!”

TV’s turned on.
He watches it from the edge
hoping to get more than just a glimpse
of Jude Law’s urethra.

“Oh dear God, my life is so hard!”
His own voices grates on in his own brain
While he thinks things over for the last time…

BANG!

“Shit, I missed.”

BANG!

“Sorry mum. You never looked that good behind
Glass anyway. I’ll find a better frame.” –

CRASH!

Now he’s dropped his girlfriend’s
wine glass.
“I’ll clean it up.”
“No, don’t worry.”
Clothes fly off, but she’s lost the condoms.

TV’s turned on.
Jude Law returns,
today he’s a turn-off.
Sexuality is subjective and he doesn’t mind.

Now he lives in
New York, New York
and maintains sporadic sex
with that girl, she sells him fried pork,
lost in some part of central park.
He was never really a proper Jew anyway.

He inhabits a flat,
Hell’s Kitchen,
he has nothing to cook with.
A sticky fly touches his
Sweat-matted leg as she tries
to flood his lung’s with her tongue’s
saliva.

He lost his gun quite a while ago and his mum’s underground.

Wondering why his life is so
God-awful
he wonders why he wonders.
They fight.
“You think you’re a God!”
“Well I have to model myself on someone.”
“Oh, stop it, Hannah and her sisters was a much better film.”
SEX.
HIV.
He wonders why.
AIDS.

He finally found his gun,
but Death hid the bullets.



The Corkscrew Effect

I crash in a doorway,
shattered.
The newspaper covering my head bares the headline;
the courtesans' killer caught and killed.
A punch and a kick
or a limb and liver to the writer
for being so quick...
but I am not dead, yet.

So I skip town; across the "you'll never catch me" crease,
and against the rise and fall contours of the yellow-brick road.

I end up benched in a park,
between two homos' and a hobo,
drawing over smiles and expressions in magazines
with "don't touch me" frowns, and gloomy perspectives.
Filling out crosswords with confessions and oaths
for my jury, someday,
and I sit - still - rewriting;
"I cannot live without your guidance" star signs -
that reveal you'll never find love, no one really likes you
and there's always someone better than you.

The is a hand-job for the 21st Century,
rich man/poor men, pleasant but painful. like;
Castor sugar cataracts,
throat sweet infections
laceration lollipops
and cancer-chip cookies.


Touching And Moving On

a bar in the south of france
marie-clair to be precise
a corner of downtown le lavandou
not much
just some oak beams
a rack of drinks
open access from the beach
nothing else is needed.
i'm sat with some paper
a pen and a budweiser
sucking slowly at the bottle
looking out at golden sand
cloudless blue sky
scribble a few useless words
nothing could capture this.
sounds of the sea
gentle road or the waves
breaking over me
finally
i'm clean
or maybe i dreamt that.
throw down some wasted lines about
the waitress serving drinks
her blonde ponytail
with those loose strands of hair
either side of her face
voodoo sticks.
i can feel their magic from here
it's in my veins
in my blood
perhaps it is me
the heart of me
and her big round eyes
we are one
i have seen more waitresses like her
she has seen more drunks like me
i think we'd have a lot to talk about.