Joker - WILD CARD
Whaaaat?
When I draw a WILD CARD things are done in a slightly different fashion. I have a few less orthodox forms up my sleeve. So I won't have to roll a dice today. Instead I'll draw another card:
Ten of Hearts- Afterglow
So now I have to find, revise, and post an old poem of mine that has something to do with afterglow.
Conveniently enough, I recently wrote a poem about afterglow (in all it's definitions), that at this point in it's life really doesn't need much revising.
Cop-out or artistic licence? You decide.
when you jump on a trampoline you take your boots off
c igarettes don't taste as good as they say
i n a 1991 Ford Taurus
p arked on someone else's property
h eat turned up as high as it can go but
e ven that won't make our breaths invisible or
r ouse your feet: frigid and covered in the hay
a t which we pick
n aked telling each other
d ead baby jokes
.
.
.
Wednesday, April 07, 2010
Tuesday, April 06, 2010
April 6th - Irrational Fears
Ten of Clubs - Irrational fears
7 - Bruce Springsteen song
(Don't Be) Afraid of the Night
On the streets the boys work all day dying for a piece of the American dream
And at night they escape while you lie here crying too scared to even scream
At the first sign of darkness
You run to your home
But you're young Alice
You should be out on the road
Oooh
Don't waste your summer
Don't run back inside
My engines are roaring
And my tires slide
I've sprung from the gates
Alice break free for once baby
Don't be afraid of the night
No Alice
Don't be afraid of the night
(spoken) Leave those fears behind girl
You kneel and pray by your bedroom window for a way to end your gloom
Somewhere out in the distance there's a radio playing some Jerry Lee Lewis tune (cue piano fill)
Well look out that window
I'm parked in your drive
So come out from your castle
Alice come for a ride
Ooooh
The sun's going down
but we don't need to hide
We can ditch New Brunswick
We can leave all these losers behind
Tearing out of town
Life's hard on the outside but
We'll make it through tonight
Yeah baby
We'll make it through tonight
(spoken) Come ride with me baby
(horn break)
I'm just a lonely rider in my old Cheverolet
with a beat up chassy but I'm still packing some horsepower
Running red lights tryin' to get out of this town
Girl I'll do anything to make you come around
With you sitting on the passenger side
We can go, we can run
We can drive anywhere you like
But if we both end up in Atlantic City tonight
You can bet baby
You can bet that we're alive
(max weinberg: “1...2...3...4”)
Angels are with us on the turnpike tonight making sure we stayin' free
By exit 13 your whole life's disappeared and girl it's just you and me
We roar through the Holland
We're crossing state lines
Flick'ring lights in the tunnel
you tell me you're mine
Ooooh
Now were out in the city
We're down on the streets
We're running for our lives
And we'll be running all night
For Redemption Avenue's long
The sun may be gone girl but
Don't be afraid of the night
No baby
Don't be afraid of the night
Together we can do it
Don't be afraid of the night
(spoken) We'll live forever Alice
Don't be afraid of the night
Yeah yeah yeah
Yeah Yeah Yeah
Don't be afraid of the night
Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh
(etc.)
7 - Bruce Springsteen song
(Don't Be) Afraid of the Night
On the streets the boys work all day dying for a piece of the American dream
And at night they escape while you lie here crying too scared to even scream
At the first sign of darkness
You run to your home
But you're young Alice
You should be out on the road
Oooh
Don't waste your summer
Don't run back inside
My engines are roaring
And my tires slide
I've sprung from the gates
Alice break free for once baby
Don't be afraid of the night
No Alice
Don't be afraid of the night
(spoken) Leave those fears behind girl
You kneel and pray by your bedroom window for a way to end your gloom
Somewhere out in the distance there's a radio playing some Jerry Lee Lewis tune (cue piano fill)
Well look out that window
I'm parked in your drive
So come out from your castle
Alice come for a ride
Ooooh
The sun's going down
but we don't need to hide
We can ditch New Brunswick
We can leave all these losers behind
Tearing out of town
Life's hard on the outside but
We'll make it through tonight
Yeah baby
We'll make it through tonight
(spoken) Come ride with me baby
(horn break)
I'm just a lonely rider in my old Cheverolet
with a beat up chassy but I'm still packing some horsepower
Running red lights tryin' to get out of this town
Girl I'll do anything to make you come around
With you sitting on the passenger side
We can go, we can run
We can drive anywhere you like
But if we both end up in Atlantic City tonight
You can bet baby
You can bet that we're alive
(max weinberg: “1...2...3...4”)
Angels are with us on the turnpike tonight making sure we stayin' free
By exit 13 your whole life's disappeared and girl it's just you and me
We roar through the Holland
We're crossing state lines
Flick'ring lights in the tunnel
you tell me you're mine
Ooooh
Now were out in the city
We're down on the streets
We're running for our lives
And we'll be running all night
For Redemption Avenue's long
The sun may be gone girl but
Don't be afraid of the night
No baby
Don't be afraid of the night
Together we can do it
Don't be afraid of the night
(spoken) We'll live forever Alice
Don't be afraid of the night
Yeah yeah yeah
Yeah Yeah Yeah
Don't be afraid of the night
Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh
(etc.)
April 5th - Johns
King of Spades - Johns
13 - Stream of consciousness prose poem
This Would Have Been Called:
'When I Bellow, You Bellow Back'
All I really want to do right now is eat pizza and watch baseball, which is a surefire sign that tonight I won't be doing justice to this very open-ended topic. Historically though, justice is rarely extended to johns. It wasn't to my son. John was my son for a brief time. These were in the days when I couldn't grow a proper beard and I shook with every step. "Softsword" John was my son in those days before I disowned him, before the whole production ended a week too late and I drank red wine with my wife in a Farrington apartment to the backdrop of "Oh, Canada!"...I am being vague, and I'm sorry for that, but poets are supposed to be vague, right? I'm sure that blowhard Robert Pinsky would agree. John Lennon agreed at one of his finest moments when he sang about Sir Walter Raleigh (on whom there'll be more written if it's in the cards) and I feel about as tired as my namesake right now; I've been staring at this blinking pointer in the middle of this sentence for over a minute...I want to be candid - that's something I need to work on - so I will be: right now, like good old John Lennon before me, I am miserable in my wakefulness. At this moment I am destitute in my exhaustion - my existence seems abject, but at least I'm self-aware. I know that said misery and said exhaustion are directly proportional - that this despair is external, transient. And I want you to know it too. If you are able to wade this far through my meanderence (it's a word if I want it to be) know this: Your desolation is not intrinsic. Your sadness is fleeting. All of you...I...I didn't know this years ago back when I was a father of three and I didn't sleep all night and with my bathroom door open I stared at my neckbeard face and at the dawn rising behind my head. Stranger's eyes were watching me: I didn't know who I was - was I a king or what? And I remember that morning because later someone told me that Elliott Smith had killed himself (for my dears we all know that he did in fact kill himself) but I didn't really feel bad even though I had idolized him for a time. Nor did allow myself to feel good when practicing a kiss with my mistress during that beloved production. At this moment I wonder why I didn't allow myself to enjoy that moment, but back then I had my reasons I guess. I was one step behind Amory Blaine back then: I didn't even know myself. Shaking, I opened my eyes while kissing her and looked behind her head and found myself staring into that same stranger's eyes...and here, now I'm tired enough to wonder if you're intending to look at me with those big old eyes of yours. Although I am lucid enough to stop my train of thought before it derails and crashes in the woods and settles as a home for a different type of John: all headless and derelict - those witnesses testifying to the light. I've run out of steam...
That last phrase alluding to John the Baptist wasn't supposed to be a throwaway at the end of a badly drawn metaphor. Sorry...This whole thing has been less of a stream and more of a sputter. I had high aspirations. I aimed in this to touch on the the problems of hereditary succession, the cruel duality facing both prostitutes and their customers...on A.A. Milne, an eighties sitcom, a Red Hot Chili Peppers song...I like to tell myself I would have woven all this together seamlessly if I had gotten more sleep last night. But even then, it would have been nothing but vagueness and pregnant words. I would have still just written about myself. This form has allowed me to do just that for the first time this whole project: write about myself. But fuck that masturbation, that self-aggrandizement so tied to poetry. No one really cares nor should they be expected to. Who am I - a king or what?
13 - Stream of consciousness prose poem
This Would Have Been Called:
'When I Bellow, You Bellow Back'
All I really want to do right now is eat pizza and watch baseball, which is a surefire sign that tonight I won't be doing justice to this very open-ended topic. Historically though, justice is rarely extended to johns. It wasn't to my son. John was my son for a brief time. These were in the days when I couldn't grow a proper beard and I shook with every step. "Softsword" John was my son in those days before I disowned him, before the whole production ended a week too late and I drank red wine with my wife in a Farrington apartment to the backdrop of "Oh, Canada!"...I am being vague, and I'm sorry for that, but poets are supposed to be vague, right? I'm sure that blowhard Robert Pinsky would agree. John Lennon agreed at one of his finest moments when he sang about Sir Walter Raleigh (on whom there'll be more written if it's in the cards) and I feel about as tired as my namesake right now; I've been staring at this blinking pointer in the middle of this sentence for over a minute...I want to be candid - that's something I need to work on - so I will be: right now, like good old John Lennon before me, I am miserable in my wakefulness. At this moment I am destitute in my exhaustion - my existence seems abject, but at least I'm self-aware. I know that said misery and said exhaustion are directly proportional - that this despair is external, transient. And I want you to know it too. If you are able to wade this far through my meanderence (it's a word if I want it to be) know this: Your desolation is not intrinsic. Your sadness is fleeting. All of you...I...I didn't know this years ago back when I was a father of three and I didn't sleep all night and with my bathroom door open I stared at my neckbeard face and at the dawn rising behind my head. Stranger's eyes were watching me: I didn't know who I was - was I a king or what? And I remember that morning because later someone told me that Elliott Smith had killed himself (for my dears we all know that he did in fact kill himself) but I didn't really feel bad even though I had idolized him for a time. Nor did allow myself to feel good when practicing a kiss with my mistress during that beloved production. At this moment I wonder why I didn't allow myself to enjoy that moment, but back then I had my reasons I guess. I was one step behind Amory Blaine back then: I didn't even know myself. Shaking, I opened my eyes while kissing her and looked behind her head and found myself staring into that same stranger's eyes...and here, now I'm tired enough to wonder if you're intending to look at me with those big old eyes of yours. Although I am lucid enough to stop my train of thought before it derails and crashes in the woods and settles as a home for a different type of John: all headless and derelict - those witnesses testifying to the light. I've run out of steam...
That last phrase alluding to John the Baptist wasn't supposed to be a throwaway at the end of a badly drawn metaphor. Sorry...This whole thing has been less of a stream and more of a sputter. I had high aspirations. I aimed in this to touch on the the problems of hereditary succession, the cruel duality facing both prostitutes and their customers...on A.A. Milne, an eighties sitcom, a Red Hot Chili Peppers song...I like to tell myself I would have woven all this together seamlessly if I had gotten more sleep last night. But even then, it would have been nothing but vagueness and pregnant words. I would have still just written about myself. This form has allowed me to do just that for the first time this whole project: write about myself. But fuck that masturbation, that self-aggrandizement so tied to poetry. No one really cares nor should they be expected to. Who am I - a king or what?
Sunday, April 04, 2010
April 4th - White Guilt
Three of Spades - White Guilt
18 - Free Verse
* I'm having formatting issues. Any lines separated by a _____ should be read as one line.
Fissures
18 - Free Verse
* I'm having formatting issues. Any lines separated by a _____ should be read as one line.
Fissures
"Hey My Beautiful"
Shouting at me across the street then trampling over
Shouting at me across the street then trampling over
his warm hand grabs mine - huge
black
warm but crackedand rough like the skin of an elephant i think
not that it's what I want to think but it's all I can think
as
yellow-eyed
chapped lipped
he won't let go of my hand
and
"My Beautiful
affected I hate to
African
bother
accent
you"
he won't let go of my hand just yet
eyes yellow
teeth ivory
and I'm a child again sticking my arm through the bars of the _____elephant cage running my fingers through the fissures of its _____skinHe lets go of me
but
in his yellowest eyes
in his whitest smile
I forget how to walk in heels
and he thrusts at me
a mess of papers stained with coffee
"I came all the way from Africa"
"I came all the way from Africa"
and barbecue sauce and blood
"My village needs your help"
crumpled in his damaged hands
crumpled in his damaged hands
not listening i hold my breath watching
his tics and his stammers
and his wild yellow eyes
the brown flesh folding over his neck and my fingers tracing _____fissures in the elephant's skin
shuddering
"AIDS"
a tooth-marked pen in my hand and I'm signing my name
while the othershaking hand in purse fingers crisp twenty dollar bill
and his nostrils flare
and he kisses the money
and his lips are full
cracked and rough
"You are blessed"
and it disappears in his fissured hands
Backwards walking into the multitude he declares,
"God bless you My Beautiful Princess
God bless you My Beautiful Queen"
Saturday, April 03, 2010
April 3rd - Abroad
Ace of Clubs - Abroad
8 - Limerick
I met a fine woman in Munich
Who proceeded to take off her tunic
Her husband came home
To find us alone
And attempted to make me a eunuch
8 - Limerick
I met a fine woman in Munich
Who proceeded to take off her tunic
Her husband came home
To find us alone
And attempted to make me a eunuch
Friday, April 02, 2010
April 2nd - September 14th
Four of Hearts - September 14th
14 - Craigslist missed connection
Too Late? m4w 23 (middle east downstairs)
http://boston.craigslist.org/gbs/mis/1674236923.html
:
Date: 2010-04-03, 12:10AM EDT
PostingID: 1674236923
p.s. The answer to all of your questions is "yes", kid.
-
This certainly wasn't what I had in mind for "September 14th"
Here's the first line of what I would have written had I rolled differently:
When I came back the earth was still on fire
-
Also a revised reposting of a non-poem on a similar topic:
The 'T' Word
There was only one word on everyone’s mind. But we weren’t terrified, not really. It was more anticipation than anything else - an emotionless anticipation. Nobody shook in fear, even as the whole world rumbled.
Joe and I were smoking outside the coffee shop when it happened, when...BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRANNNG BBBBBBBRRRRR... The earth shook. Our ear drums shook. We didn't shake.
A few customers emerged, attracted by the unexplained vibrations, but I saw no dread in any of their eyes; they wanted to see it - something - happen. Joe and I? We kept sitting, letting the cigarettes in our mouths dangle and burn.
And then suddenly, the source of the noise revealed itself: a low-flying military jet, almost alien, emerged from behind the Hancock Building. It sailed across the pale sun and away from us as the rumbling subsided. There was no movement, no noise.
And then suddenly, the spectators returned to their laptops and lattes. Joe and I remembered our cigarettes and I noticed that mine had extinguished at the filter. I stomped on it as Joe pulled some smoke into his lungs and exhaling, turned to me. His voice was fragile: “There was only one word on everyone’s mind.”
14 - Craigslist missed connection
Too Late? m4w 23 (middle east downstairs)
http://boston.craigslist.org/gbs/mis/1674236923.html
:
Too Late? - m4w - 23 (middle east downstairs)
Date: 2010-04-03, 12:10AM EDT
So I don't know if you remember me...
You were standing in front of me in line at the Deerhoof concert at the Middle East on September 14th.
The first thing I saw were your suede boots – a little worse for the wear.
And then I looked up.
You had on a yellow dress which ended just above your knees and a necklace with big green stones on it.
Everything you wore shimmered....
but not as much as you....
I kept looking over at you during the show and I was going to go ask you your name but you were dancing so intently that I didn't want to, you know, disrupt your reverie.
You left before the encore, before I could find you.
But I ran into you again after the show at Wendy's: you were eating with a few friends and you were dipping your burger in sweet and sour sauce.
You gave me this glance out of the corner of your eye like you recognized me.
And I was going to come talk to you because I really like to do that with my burger too, and I came up with a really witty comment about sweet and sour sauce – really it was pretty good.
But I didn't for some reason and instead left with my chili and got on the bus home where I couldn't stop thinking about you and decided I was gonna put one of these up first thing in the morning on September 15th.
I certainly couldn't do it that night. That would be weird, right?
So I told myself I would wake up early and post one of these – not too early though. But then I stayed up too late thinking about what I was going to write and in turn overslept and when I woke up and tried to write this, it didn't feel right. So I decided to wait another day, but then it felt like the moment had passed, and I said, fuck it, it's too late, and I thought I'd stop thinking about you. But then I didn't stop thinking about you, but I didn't want to be that pathetic guy posting on craigslist missed connections four days after the fact. And I hope this doesn't come off as creepy, but these feelings haven't stopped and seriously everytime I see a diminutive blonde walk by, I have to check twice and make sure it's not you and now it's been so long I'm not even sure I would recognize your face if I saw you again.
Maybe I should have spoken up on September 14th.
Maybe I will now:
Hey.
My name's Jeff.
Deerhoof was really good live.
That's my favorite way of getting in my daily recommended value of high-fructose corn syrup too.
I think you're cute.
Is it too late?
You were standing in front of me in line at the Deerhoof concert at the Middle East on September 14th.
The first thing I saw were your suede boots – a little worse for the wear.
And then I looked up.
You had on a yellow dress which ended just above your knees and a necklace with big green stones on it.
Everything you wore shimmered....
but not as much as you....
I kept looking over at you during the show and I was going to go ask you your name but you were dancing so intently that I didn't want to, you know, disrupt your reverie.
You left before the encore, before I could find you.
But I ran into you again after the show at Wendy's: you were eating with a few friends and you were dipping your burger in sweet and sour sauce.
You gave me this glance out of the corner of your eye like you recognized me.
And I was going to come talk to you because I really like to do that with my burger too, and I came up with a really witty comment about sweet and sour sauce – really it was pretty good.
But I didn't for some reason and instead left with my chili and got on the bus home where I couldn't stop thinking about you and decided I was gonna put one of these up first thing in the morning on September 15th.
I certainly couldn't do it that night. That would be weird, right?
So I told myself I would wake up early and post one of these – not too early though. But then I stayed up too late thinking about what I was going to write and in turn overslept and when I woke up and tried to write this, it didn't feel right. So I decided to wait another day, but then it felt like the moment had passed, and I said, fuck it, it's too late, and I thought I'd stop thinking about you. But then I didn't stop thinking about you, but I didn't want to be that pathetic guy posting on craigslist missed connections four days after the fact. And I hope this doesn't come off as creepy, but these feelings haven't stopped and seriously everytime I see a diminutive blonde walk by, I have to check twice and make sure it's not you and now it's been so long I'm not even sure I would recognize your face if I saw you again.
Maybe I should have spoken up on September 14th.
Maybe I will now:
Hey.
My name's Jeff.
Deerhoof was really good live.
That's my favorite way of getting in my daily recommended value of high-fructose corn syrup too.
I think you're cute.
Is it too late?
- Location: middle east downstairs
- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
-
p.s. The answer to all of your questions is "yes", kid.
-
This certainly wasn't what I had in mind for "September 14th"
Here's the first line of what I would have written had I rolled differently:
When I came back the earth was still on fire
-
Also a revised reposting of a non-poem on a similar topic:
The 'T' Word
There was only one word on everyone’s mind. But we weren’t terrified, not really. It was more anticipation than anything else - an emotionless anticipation. Nobody shook in fear, even as the whole world rumbled.
Joe and I were smoking outside the coffee shop when it happened, when...BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRANNNG BBBBBBBRRRRR... The earth shook. Our ear drums shook. We didn't shake.
A few customers emerged, attracted by the unexplained vibrations, but I saw no dread in any of their eyes; they wanted to see it - something - happen. Joe and I? We kept sitting, letting the cigarettes in our mouths dangle and burn.
And then suddenly, the source of the noise revealed itself: a low-flying military jet, almost alien, emerged from behind the Hancock Building. It sailed across the pale sun and away from us as the rumbling subsided. There was no movement, no noise.
And then suddenly, the spectators returned to their laptops and lattes. Joe and I remembered our cigarettes and I noticed that mine had extinguished at the filter. I stomped on it as Joe pulled some smoke into his lungs and exhaling, turned to me. His voice was fragile: “There was only one word on everyone’s mind.”
Thursday, April 01, 2010
April 1st - White-person dreadlocks
Don't know if I could have picked a better combo to start things off:
Three of Clubs: White-person drealocks
14: Craigslist missed connection
Three of Clubs: White-person drealocks
14: Craigslist missed connection
Naughty Dread w4m 19 (newbury st.)
http://boston.craigslist.org/gbs/mis/1672587938.html
:
Date: 2010-04-01, 10:27PM EDT
:
Naughty Dread - w4m - 19 (newbury st)
Date: 2010-04-01, 10:27PM EDT
you: freckels, jack johnson t-shirt and SUPER HOT dreadlocks
you were playing guitar on newbury street and i stood and watched you for a few songs
we met eyes a few times during no woman no cry and you messed up cause you saw me looking at you
when you started playing that song that you said was a u2 song i totally caught you smiling at me
i think
there was a girl who was playing keyboard with you but something told me you were just friends
(i think she was a lesbian)
if not i bet i can do a better job of tickling your ivories;)
let me know what color converse i was wearing so i know its you...
PostingID: 1672587938you were playing guitar on newbury street and i stood and watched you for a few songs
we met eyes a few times during no woman no cry and you messed up cause you saw me looking at you
when you started playing that song that you said was a u2 song i totally caught you smiling at me
i think
there was a girl who was playing keyboard with you but something told me you were just friends
(i think she was a lesbian)
if not i bet i can do a better job of tickling your ivories;)
let me know what color converse i was wearing so i know its you...
- Location: newbury st
- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
National Poetry Month
So apparently it's National Poetry Month. It's also National Parkinson's Disease Awareness Month, National Arab American Heritage Month, and National Manatee Awareness Month, but let's not worry about those other designations for April right now.
As a jump start for my other projects, a much needed update to an otherwise dying blog, and a gift to you my dear readers, I'll be participating this year. Each day I will write and post a new poem based on the following randomizing system. Said randomizer is a nod to my indoor kid past, consisting of drawing from a deck of cards and rolling a twenty-sided die. Each card and each side is assigned a topic and form, respectively.
The list of topics is as follows:
Joker WILD CARD
2C Palate cleansers2D Pizza
2S Gas station cappuccino machines
2H Leaving a tip
3C White person dreadlocks
3D White Christmas
3S White guilt
3H White Day
4C Television
4D Slavery/Emancipation
4S Evolution/Devolution
4H September 14th
5C Bodacious babes
5D Not-so-bodacious babes
5S Ducks
5H Sacred spaces
6C Organic milk
6D The Great Bear
6S Character sketch of a Starbucks regular
6H Misanthropy
7C The Sea
7D Noble lies
7S Det. James McNulty
7H Victories (small)
8C A highschooler on GChat
8D School photos
8S Riding the T
8H Riding a Ferris Wheel
9C Young poets
9D Skinny jeans
9S Ironic mustaches
9H The yoke of fame
10C Irrational fears
10D Phantom limbs
10S Foreplay
10H Afterglow
JC Tobacco
JD Rasputin
JS Bill Clinton
JH WILD CARD
QC The power of red lipstick
QD Red Dawn
QS Kissing a married woman
QH Having a gay best friend
KC Burger King
KD Fat Elvis
KS Johns
KH Suicide
AC Abroad
AD Vices
AS God
AH Potential Energy
Joker WILD CARD
And the forms:
1 Pretentious doggerel (botch)
2 Haiku
4 Ruba'i
5 Free verse
8 Limerick
9 Free verse
10 Sapphic Ode
11 Tweet
12 Zen Koan
16 Beat poem
17 Heroic Verse
18 Free verse
19 Rondelet
20 Any above form of my choosing
Every day in April I will draw a card and roll the die and write a poem using that topic and form and post it here before I go to sleep for the night.
Caveats:
- I will follow the system everyday even if it means I have to write a Shakespearean sonnet about Burger King. After the first poem of the day, anything else written here will be done so in any form of my choosing.
- Once a topic is used, it will not be put back in the deck.
- On rare occasions, some re-rolling may be necessary. I will adhere to the guidelines of this project as much as is realistic, but I'm not about to write 25 mainstream raps this month.
- Question: Can tweets and craigslist missed connections really be considered poetic forms? Answer: Chill out, Robert Pinsky. I could use this space to argue yes, citing the deterioration of "poetry" as it relates to the death of the monoculture, but I don't need to, because I have full creative control here.
- I would have incorporated the infamous rule card, but since I bought my deck of cards at Dollar Tree, one was not included.
- For the next month, it's a safe bet that you'll find a good bunch of doggerel on this site, but maybe a nugget of gold or two. It's an experiment, we'll see.
Thanks to those who participated by throwing some topic suggestions my way. I'll try to do them justice.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Take that, Rex Reed
Below are the two best movie reviews that I, nay, that anyone has ever written:
M. Night Shaymalan's The Happening
It was a crap fest, an explosive diarrhea, an anal death rattle of a film. Words cannot describe how closely it resembled fecal matter.
The Curious Case Of Benjamin Button
The Curious Case Of Benjamin Button grabs you by the dick and won't let go.
M. Night Shaymalan's The Happening
It was a crap fest, an explosive diarrhea, an anal death rattle of a film. Words cannot describe how closely it resembled fecal matter.
The Curious Case Of Benjamin Button
The Curious Case Of Benjamin Button grabs you by the dick and won't let go.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)