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The Spearhead on Lady Lit, Part 2: Poetry Slam!

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, dude poet extraordinaire

The fellows at The Spearhead are still talking about lady literature — by which I mean, why ladies totally can’t write for shit. This time, they’re taking on the lady poets.

Contrasting a poem by former US poet laureate Kay Ryan with Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s Kubla Khan, The Spearhead’s W.F. Price proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that men are the best poets. And then Price takes it one step further, contrasting a video of Kay Ryan’s reading of another of her poems with Dylan Thomas’ passionate (if slightly overripe) reading of his “Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night.”

While I can’t take issue with Price’s methodology here – comparing a couple of random poems by a female poet most people have never heard of (but who apparently represents all female poets ever)  with legendary poems by two of the world’s most famous poets – I wonder about his choice of male poets here.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge? Dylan Thomas? Sure, they wrote some awesome dude poems, for their time. But they’re long dead, Daddy-O, and we men of today demand poetry that speaks to our lives. Who better speaks to men today than the tag-team of Shaggy 2 Dope and Violent J from the Insane Clown Posse? And which of their poems speaks to men today better than their most famous work, “Miracles?”

Here are some selections from this fine piece of work — and because, by Price’s rules, any poem by a person of a particular gender obviously represents all poetry from people of that gender, this wonderful little poem represents all male poetry. (Not to mention all poetry written by insane clowns.)

We don’t have to be high to look in the sky

And know that’s a miracle opened wide

Look at the mountains, trees, the seven seas

And everything chilling underwater, please …

Pure magic is the birth of my kids

I’ve seen shit that’ll shock your eyelids

The sun and the moon, and even Mars

The Milky Way and fucking shooting stars

UFOs, a river flows

Plant a little seed and nature grows

Niagara falls and the pyramids

Everything you believed in as kids

Fucking rainbows after it rains

There’s enough miracles here to blow your brains

I fed a fish to a pelican at Frisco bay

It tried to eat my cell phone, he ran away

And then, in this poem’s most famous lines, Shaggy 2 Dope (or perhaps Violent J, I can’t remember which is which), takes on the miracle of magnetism:

I see miracles all around me

Stop and look around, it’s all astounding

Water, fire, air and dirt

Fucking magnets, how do they work?

And I don’t wanna talk to a scientist

Y’all motherfuckers lying, and getting me pissed

But as wonderfully as these lines read on the printed page, it is Insane Clown Posse’s performance of this poem (which they have set to music) that really brings home how motherfuckingly miraculous these two poets, and by extension all men who have ever written poetry, really are. So here is that performance:

As yet another great male poet, MC Hammer, once put it: “You can’t touch this!”

But, just to be fair, here’s some chick reading her dumb poem:

Picture of Samuel Taylor Coleridge by Jason Towers, from here.

122 replies on “The Spearhead on Lady Lit, Part 2: Poetry Slam!”

Ah, cherry picking. It’s so fun! And since we’re allowed, here’s Kay Ryan herself (instead of the ‘insufferably sactimonius’ Keillor) on “the Edges Of Time”: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19821

And from Poet Lauriet Donald Hall, a messed up Haiku: http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/distressed-haiku/

Also, Garrison Keillor is awesome, and I like that he’s not even pretending to be fair at that point. “Oh, here’s some guy I can’t stand reading this poem, and my favorite poem of all time over here. I wonder why I thing one is better!”

Mrow

mrow mrow

mrow mrow mrow

Mrow!

😀

Feminists believe

in equality,

MRAs cry bullshit

and they disagree,

they troll and cry

and whine at me,

I roll my eyes

and go XD

Iambic pentameter is hard, yo.
The end results are very hit or miss.
But rhyming the words is even more so.
How the flying fuck did Shakespeare do this?

Fucking women how do they work?

And I don’t wanna talk to a feminist

Y’all motherfuckers lying, and getting me pissed

Sorry, sorry I just couldn’t resist (:

MRAs are a humourless lot,

They imagine nothing

except sex bots,

I try to get their brains in gear,

but nothing comes

except cold fear,

I wonder often what they want,

if sex or love

or Pecunium’s Kant,

Then I realize what they need,

is a big ol hug

and a little nappy

On top of everything else, I think the Spearhead dwellers actually think the chicken poem is about chickens.

W.F. Price is so willfully dumb that it actually angers me.

Bee, I think you’re right. These guys tend to be really really literal about things.

Also, even if a poem really IS about chickens, which this one isn’t, since when does the ostensible subject matter of a poem determine its quality? Basho used to write haikus about frogs, for fuck’s sake. They wouldn’t have been better if he’s been writing about Kubla Khan.

And speaking of Coleridge, didn’t he write some big long poem about a dumb bird?

(Note to literal-minded MRAs: I am making a joke here.)

There once was a boy named Lieutenant
Who thought he could win the Troll Pennant,
But he had a weird eye
And then he said goodbye.
Good luck to our next trolly tenant!

(You try to fucking rhyme “lieutenant,” okay? My vag has nothing to do with it.)

My vag has nothing to do with it.

No vag powers were used to write that?
Then to you I must tip my hat.
I always thought
Talent was brought
By being born with … a… ladybits….

Oh NWOslave, you needling knave,

your theories and queries and rants to us gave.

Telling the women how they spend their lives

coniving and thriving on gifts from us guys.

Have sex? You whores! Abstain? Abusers.

Being given a gift makes all women the losers.

Yet hark, what’s this? They give men gifts too?

That goes against logic, and so I’ll ignore you!

My theories are perfect, my reasoning tight,

If you can’t convince me I’m wrong, then I’m right!

Out of curiosity, how are people doing the single line line breaks? does the br tag work here?
If this works, that answers my question.

Today I think we all should speak in rhyme,
with practice we’ll all have an easy time.
I really want to see how well it goes
When trolls return and we respond in prose.

Crap.. prose isn’t what I thought it was… Well, you get what I was trying to say, right? right?

so much depends
upon

a lonely boy
inside

a rising elevator
damp

from girl’s disdainful
spit

This is just to say

we have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

we wanted
so we took
‘cuz that’s how girls
roll

I could not stop for Beta,
So he kindly stopped for me;
That’s what a girl expects from men–
Consummate chivalry.
He gave a rose, he bought my lunch,
And showered me with cash.
My days became sweet leisure, too,
Bon-bons and watching MASH.

We passed date one, that night he strove
to rein in his desire;
We passed date two, though yearning built
to remove my underwire.

I was a ware he’d purchased,
yet his sampling was delayed.
He ached to strip my flimsy gown,
to at last get fucking laid.

Third date, we paused before his door,
his swelling clearly ripe;
He’d done with waiting gently for
my lips to smoke his pipe.

Upon the ground, we wrangled
til he overcame my moue.
But victory belonged to me:
his child support is due.

MRAs MRAs MRAs troll
MRAs cry and MRAs lie
Whining and yelling up a forum of hate
Now the gender war initiates

MRAs MRAs MRAs troll
MRAs fear and MRAS jeer
Screaming and hiding from feminist plots
Wishing for the bots.

On man boobz, or youtubes
They troll the thread aground

MRAs know that we know
that feminism knows no bounds.

Sleep with him, quick divorce, let the check bounce
This is the female role

Throw in an insult before the flounce
That’s how MRAs
That’s how MRAs
That’s how MRAs trolllllllll

Inspired by Mandolin, I have also reworked a classic poem:

HOP POP We like to hop
We like to hop on top of pop
STOP You must not hop on pop
Fuck you, pop, this is what you get
For 3500 years of patriarchy, you bastard

(I will never be outdone… NEVA! >:D)

They see me roll in, they spittin
On me, cause they know that I’m short and beta
Look at me, I’m short and beta
Look at me, I’m short and beta
Look at me, I’m short and beta
Look at me, I’m short and beta
I try to say hi, get ignored
Cause I’m no Brad Pitt, I’m just short and beta
Look at me, I’m short and beta
Look at me, I’m short and beta
Look at me, I’m short and beta
Can’t you see I’m short and beta?

Look at me, I’m an average fella,
I don’t have Fassbender’s patella
But I got to bring my umbrella
Cause these bitches be spittin, I tell ya.

I got a horribly deformed eye,
Looks about 3 inches wide,
And despite the best I try
All the ladies just stare as they pass me by.

Its just not possible for me to compete
With an 8 foot mountain of alpha meat.
I’m too short by a couple of feet,
There’s so many alpha women I want to beat.

Like that bitch on the elevator
That one time we met, I still hate her!
Said hello and she didn’t cater
To my requirements of female behavior.

Don’t get me started on the topic of fat chicks.
They’re Omegas, but they seem to get their kicks
From feeling entitled chasing alpha dicks.
Should date me, though they make me feel sick.

I’ve got voices goin in my brain,
“punch that bitch so she feels my pain.”
But I always manage to restrain
My violent urges.. I’m not insane!

I go to forums. I post some.
But I get mobbed because I’m short and beta
Look at me, I’m short and beta
Look at me, I’m short and beta
Look at me, I’m short and beta
They can see I’m short and beta
They tell me women have problems.
But they don’t know the pain of short and beta
Look at me, I’m short and beta
Look at me, I’m short and beta
Look at me, I’m short and beta
Don’t wanna be short and beta.

(sorry if this is a bit long)

“Look, if you want to torture me, spank me, lick me, do it. But if this poetry shit continues, shoot me now, please.”

JK, but I have never had the easiest time with non-narrative poetry, especially when not hearing it out loud.

I’m omega! Who are you?
Are you omega, too?
Then there ‘s a pair of us — don’t tell!
They ‘d spit on us us, you know.

How dreary to be a social alpha freak!
How public, and how tall!
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring group of slug-women at the mall!

Mandolin, I cannot stop laughing. Thank you.

I went over to the Spearhead so I could read the dreaded chicken poem, and to find out why the Spearhead decided to suddenly dogpile on a not-very-well-known former Poet Laureate. Turns out that Ryan is not just a WOMAN (boo! hiss!) but a LESBIAN (ewww!), which is freaking the commentators out.

They’re also bitching a lot about how Poet Laureates are always women or black people or black women because of unfair white-male-hating P.C. discrimination OH GOD THE WHITE MAN IS SO OPPRESSED IN THIS COUNTRY. I can understand their outrage, given that the current Poet Laureate is this soul sister:

http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/123

Continuing Mandolin’s idea (this is fun!)…

Chicks, be not proud, though some have called thee
Perfect and princesses, for thou art not so:
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
Go Galt, dumb bitches; nor yet canst thou spit on me.
From hand and fleshlight, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure — then from thee much more must flow;
‘Cept for thy bitchiness, with you I wouldst go –
Rest of my bones, and soul’s delivery!
Thou’rt slave to alphas, gold, attention, and thine own uterus,
And dost with man-hate, fame, and evil dwell;
And sexbots or porn can make us come as well,
And better, than thy stroke; — why swell’st thou then?
One short pump-and-dump past, MGTOWs run eternally,
And women’s privilege shall be no more: Chicks, thou shalt die.

Hark! Hark! The snark at Manboobz’ blog stings,
And Slavey ‘gins arise,
His rants of secret plots he brings
To counter womens’ lies;
And winking MRAs begin
To ope their beady eyes;
With everything misogynist,
My dudely bros, arise:
Arise, arise!

And who could forget the MRM version of the Robert Frost classic, “The Road Not Taken”:

All you western women are used-up skanks.

I gave myself a 2-minute deadline and I’m still better than clowns!

The Political Machinist
Spent all his years thinking machines
spent all his money
on
thinking machines
until bang came one day
balcony-bound
and temple to barrel
we all heard him shout

“eureka!
perfection!
a legacy of knowledge
won, but hard-fought!
I’ve done it mankind
merged metal with mind
perfection re-tuned
returned
relearned!
my daughter
your mother
our tyrant
no other
Heed her will and be taught!”

Police later determined that stone cold bitches were to blame.

It often makes me wonder
When men in the past, fought in fierce battles, sometimes to the last.
It wasn’t for glory or honor or fame, when the grim reaper came calling, their wives and children with their last breath they’d name.
Today they’re ridiculed by the decendents they bore, their sacrifices are mocked, they are revered no more.

It often makes me wonder
About millenium untold, how a fathers love was precious, by the children he’d hold.
He’d toil everyday coming home drenched in sweat, a fathers love is boundless, never knowing regret.
Now he’s a villan a fable from the past, unloved and unwanted, to the curb he is cast.

It often makes me wonder
About a man and his wife, endless seasons pass by, still he calls her his love and his life.
She’s there in his dreams and swims in his thoughts by day, his love for his wife can never be swayed.
Yesteryear is gone it will return no more, much like todays huband, forbidden from her door.

The world has moved on and has been torn asunder.
Why did this have to happen, it often makes me wonder.

NWOslave

What good is it to be loved by one with the world to give,
If one is never given the freedom to live?

There once was a time in the past
Where women were all second class.
Though men said they’d cherish
Their wives til they perish,
In truth they were being an ass.

Though men have fought wars and have tried
To remember loved ones when they died,
It seems they were itchin
To keep wives in the kitchen.
In short, through ommission, you’ve lied.

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