I interrupt this blog for a moment for some breaking news: Pickup Artists have started writing poetry.
And it’s glorious. By which I mean, of course, that it’s gloriously awful.
Yesterday, while poking around the internet in my usual manner, I ran across an amazing little discussion on MPUAForum.com, an online hangout for PUAs who have for some reason added an M to their usual acronym.
A PUA going by the name bob2 announced to his Comrades in Sarging that he was planning on starting a “a pickup poetry blog.” That is, a blog providing PUA wisdom to the Average Frustrated Chumps of the world in the form of little poems. As he explained:
In pickup, especially in natural game you need to really GET a few key ideas. Therefore poetry is the tool of choice. Whereas a post or an ebook “gestures” at ideas, poetry is tough and precise, it really gets the point across.
There was just one teeeeensy little roadblock with this plan: It would involve actually writing poems, and, as bob2 admitted plainly, he’s “no writer.”
Unwilling to let the fact that he can’t write get in the way of writing a blog, our hero asked the assembled masses for submissions.
And they delivered. They delivered some of the worst poems ever written by sentient beings.
“I love rhyming words to express feelings,” a fellow calling himself Pickup Truck announced happily. He celebrated this love of rhyme with a poem in which, er, nothing actually rhymed. These two stanzas will give you some idea of his intriguing sense of rhyme. And also what an insufferable ass he is.
I’ve been here a thousand times before and learnt it,
Her beauty is present, but her personality is transparent,
She may be hot but what if she’s also a bitch and unpleasant?
The challenge excites me, the prospect excites her,
She knows tonight’s going to be different,
Her daily routine will not be the same, I stroll over,
Her heart races, she turns to jelly when I smile,
Place my hand on her shoulder and ask “hey, whats your name?”
In the first, Mr, Truck at least made vague gestures towards the notion of rhyme; the second abandoned rhyme altogether.
Also, “hey what’s your name?” What the hell kind of opener is that? Shouldn’t he be negging her a little bit, dropping in a “nice nails, are they real?” or “one of your boobs is definitely bigger than the other one” or “are you a model, like, a 1/32 scale model of a Krupp Sd.Kfz.121 Panzer II F tank?”
Actually, I’m not completely sure I understand negs myself.
A commenter called Ezo came a little bit closer to the goal of writing a poem that rhymes. But he seemed unaware that words that are spelled similarly do not always sound alike.
When you start getting the point of the Game.
Your life will not ever give you the same.
Tired of pondering words that she said.
When she just told you that youre not getting laid.
Dziah, perhaps noticing the troubles his comrades were having with rhyme and meter, went with free verse. Very free verse. Verse so free that it probably should have been repressed a little by the authorities.
I gazed at a rose,
Cast away into the eye.
Motional leaves move while still.
This inhibited instant,
Trance just dismissed.
The elegant red of the pedal‘s tips,
The saccharine essence.
Thorns now pierce my flesh.
Uh, pretty sure you meant “petals,” dude. Flowers have petals. Bikes have pedals. Petaluma is a city in California.
Those roses that dispute the most anguish,
Contain the most eccentric adventures.
These strange saga’s father the Magnificent.
If any of you can discern any possible meanings hiding in this word salad, let me know. I’m stumped.
Bob2 offered a couple of sample poems of his own. One even managed to work in the words “becometh” and “womanhood” — in the same line!
she becometh her womanhood
feels your calm
the easygoing King,
Err, dude, it’s sort of cheating to rhyme “calm” with “calm,” given that they’re THE SAME WORD.
But the conclusion of his poem was so truly beautiful it brought a wettening to my pants.
she wettens, she laughs
her pupils dilate
she can hardly believe it
she’s getting ready to mate.
for you are Zeus,
and she a common beauty
yours with which to masturbate.
Look, fellas, I realize that most of your trips to the club end with you back at home alone, masturbating forlornly into the bathroom sink with the memory of some women you tried to hit on floating around in your head. But you’re not supposed to admit this out loud. It kind of ruins the PUA mystique.
EDIT: Removed a link to a video; I hadn’t realized that it had some awful stuff in it.