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Getting Through : Creative Writing
David was, David was, Do you know who David was? | from Rain Child - Friday, June 23, 2006
accessed 2174 times The A-Z of Berg David was an amoral, abnormal, adulterous, antisocial, apocryphal alchoholic abysmal anomaly.
David was a Bacchanalian bible-bashing bastard bigot.
David was a cancerous (metaphorically) Child-molesting cruel con-man control freak.
David was a demanding deranged deceitful delusional dictator, a drunk, disturbed derelict deviant.
David was an egotistical extremist egomaniac
David was a frightening fanatical freak, a facist fogey, a fraud.
David was a god/guru/grandpa to his victims, now a ghost or ghoul guilty of gross misconduct.
David was horrid, haughty, horny, and hedonistic.
David was an irresponsible, incestual, insecure illusionist.
David was a sick joke.
David was king of the beggars, and the kiss of (brain) death.
David was a licentious, lustful, lonely loser and a liar.
David was a mal-adjusted, malignant, manipulative, misleading miscreant, a madman and a maniac.
David was noxious, neurotic, and narcisssistic.
David was an obsessed oedipal obscene opressive ogre.
David was a paranoid psychotic pervert, a paedophile,
a pimp, and a phoney.
David was a question-suppressing quack.
David was a rapacious remorseless recluse.
David was a self-obsessed sociopath, a schizophrenic stingy sexual pervert, a selfish spin doctor.
David was a travesty, a tacky, tawdry, tainted tyrant and totalitarian tormentor.
David was an unstable ugly unsavoury usurper.
David was a vagabond, a veneareal, volatile vulgar villain.
David was a wacky, wanton, and weird witch-doctor.
David was (Big word drum roll please...) xenophobic.
David was a yucky yoke around our necks.
David was a zealot. |
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Reader's comments on this article Add a new comment on this article |  from lisa
Friday, July 07, 2006 - 04:03
(Agree/Disagree?)
A little Boy Lost
Nought loves another as itself,
Nor venerates another so,
Nor is it possible to thought
A greater than itself to know.
"And, father, how can I love you
Or any of my brothers more?
I love you like the little bird
That picks up crumbs around the door."
The Priest sat by and heard the child;
In trembling zeal he seized his hair,
He led him by his little coat,
And all admired the priestly care.
And standing on the altar high,
"Lo, what a fiend is here! said he:
"One who sets reason up for judge
Of our most holy mystery."
The weeping child could not be heard,
The weeping parents wept in vain:
They stripped him to his little shirt,
And bound him in an iron chain,
And burned him in a holy place
Where many had been burned before;
The weeping parents wept in vain.
Are such thing done on Albion's shore?
William Blake
(reply to this comment)
| | | | | | | from tweezer
Wednesday, June 28, 2006 - 14:04
(Agree/Disagree?)
David was a zero and zoned-out, zipless fuck.
(reply to this comment)
| | | | from Rain Child
Wednesday, June 28, 2006 - 12:47
(Agree/Disagree?)
If anyone has more, feel free to add them below.
(reply to this comment)
| | | | | | | | | |  From Eric Cartman
Thursday, November 02, 2006, 13:21
 (Agree/Disagree?)
Evey: Who are you?
V: Who? Who is but the form following the function of what and what I am is a man in a mask.
Evey: Well I can see that.
V: Of course you can. I'm not questioning your powers of observation I'm merely remarking upon the paradox of asking a masked man who he is.
Evey: Oh. Right.
V: But on this most auspicious of nights, permit me then, in lieu of the more commonplace sobriquet, to suggest the character of this dramatis persona.
Voilà! In view, a humble vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of Fate. This visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is a vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vanished. However, this valorous visitation of a by-gone vexation, stands vivified and has vowed to vanquish these venal and virulent vermin van-guarding vice and vouchsafing the violently vicious and voracious violation of volition. The only verdict is vengeance; a vendetta, held as a votive, not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous. [giggles] Verily, this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most verbose, so let me simply add that it's my very good honor to meet you and you may call me V.
Evey: Are you like a crazy person?
V: I am quite sure they will say so.(reply to this comment) |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | from mia1
Tuesday, June 27, 2006 - 11:00
(Agree/Disagree?)
dude now I have the "david is" doing a rampage on my tortured brain that only a heavy dose of booze can hope to fix, I could try for heavier fixes but I'm afraid they would only inhance the "david is" alternatives....by the way, did u ever do the "david is" color pages???
(reply to this comment)
| From Rain Child
Wednesday, June 28, 2006, 12:45
(Agree/Disagree?)
Yes, that's how I came up with this. For some reason I woke up with the words..."David is a Leader and a Prophet of the Lord..." running through my brain, and I thought, "I'll have to do something about that."
I also remembered how every dress-up night all the boys had to dress up as a David Is and all the girls had to dress up as a Maria Is. (I would generally dress up as a David Is just to be perverse, and because the multitude of David's Lovers (Kerenina, Heidi etc) grew wearisome.)(reply to this comment) |
| | | | | | | | | | | from AndyH
Tuesday, June 27, 2006 - 07:20
(Agree/Disagree?)
Realizing the ridulousness for resisting his rage, the red russian racoon rapidly raized his readied rifle, and randomly riddled rounds at the running rapists.
(reply to this comment)
| | | | | | | | | | | | | from placebo
Tuesday, June 27, 2006 - 01:39
(Agree/Disagree?)
Amazing adventures in Australian alliteration...
(reply to this comment)
| | | | | | | | | | | | | From AndyH
Thursday, June 29, 2006, 07:23
(Agree/Disagree?)
I'm surprised that someone with your interest in poetry wouldn't have known that. Here's another for you.
Consonance: The repetition of consonants or of a consonant pattern, especially at the ends of words, as in blank and think or strong and string. EX: "But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door" (from "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe)(reply to this comment) |
| | | | | | | | | | | From AndyH
Thursday, June 29, 2006, 09:26
(Agree/Disagree?)
As long as we're being oldschool, here's one from my second favorite old-school poets.
The Skeleton in Armor
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
“SPEAK! speak! thou fearful guest!
Who, with thy hollow breast
Still in rude armor drest,
Comest to daunt me!
Wrapt not in Eastern balms,
But with thy fleshless palms
Stretched, as if asking alms,
Why dost thou haunt me?”
Then from those cavernous eyes
Pale flashes seemed to rise,
As when the Northern skies
Gleam in December;
And, like the water’s flow
Under December’s snow,
Came a dull voice of woe
From the heart’s chamber.
“I was a Viking old!
My deeds, though manifold,
No Skald in song has told,
No Saga taught thee!
Take heed that in thy verse
Thou dost the tale rehearse,
Else dread a dead man’s curse;
For this I sought thee.
“Far in the Northern Land,
By the wild Baltic’s strand,
I, with my childish hand,
Tamed the gerfalcon;
And, with my skates fast-bound,
Skimmed the half-frozen Sound,
That the poor whimpering hound
Trembled to walk on.
“Oft to his frozen lair
Tracked I the grisly bear,
While from my path the hare
Fled like a shadow;
Oft through the forest dark
Followed the were-wolf’s bark,
Until the soaring lark
Sang from the meadow.
“But when I older grew,
Joining a corsair’s crew,
O’er the dark sea I flew
With the marauders.
Wild was the life we led;
Many the souls that sped,
Many the hearts that bled,
By our stern orders.
“Many a wassail-bout
Wore the long Winter out;
Often our midnight shout
Set the cocks crowing,
As we the Berserk’s tale
Measured in cups of ale,
Draining the oaken pail
Filled to o’erflowing.
“Once as I told in glee
Tales of the stormy sea,
Soft eyes did gaze on me,
Burning yet tender;
And as the white stars shine
On the dark Norway pine,
On that dark heart of mine
Fell their soft splendor.
“I wooed the blue-eyed maid,
Yielding, yet half afraid,
And in the forest’s shade
Our vows were plighted.
Under its loosened vest
Fluttered her little breast,
Like birds within their nest
By the hawk frighted.
“Bright in her father’s hall
Shields gleamed upon the wall,
Loud sang the minstrels all,
Chanting his glory;
When of old Hildebrand
I asked his daughter’s hand,
Mute did the minstrels stand
To hear my story.
“While the brown ale he quaffed,
Loud then the champion laughed,
And as the wind-gusts waft
The sea-foam brightly,
So the loud laugh of scorn,
Out of those lips unshorn,
From the deep drinking-horn
Blew the foam lightly.
“She was a Prince’s child,
I but a Viking wild,
And though she blushed and smiled,
I was discarded!
Should not the dove so white
Follow the sea-mew’s flight?
Why did they leave that night
Her nest unguarded?
“Scarce had I put to sea,
Bearing the maid with me,—
Fairest of all was she
Among the Norsemen!—
When on the white sea-strand,
Waving his armëd hand,
Saw we old Hildebrand,
With twenty horsemen.
“Then launched they to the blast,
Bent like a reed each mast,
Yet we were gaining fast,
When the wind failed us;
And with a sudden flaw
Came round the gusty Skaw,
So that our foe we saw
Laugh as he hailed us.
“And as to catch the gale
Round veered the flapping sail,
‘Death!’ was the helmsman’s hail,
‘Death without quarter!’
Midships with iron keel
Struck we her ribs of steel;
Down her black hulk did reel
Through the black water!
“As with his wings aslant,
Sails the fierce cormorant,
Seeking some rocky haunt,
With his prey laden,
So toward the open main,
Beating to sea again,
Through the wild hurricane,
Bore I the maiden.
“Three weeks we westward bore,
And when the storm was o’er,
Cloud-like we saw the shore
Stretching to leeward;
There for my lady’s bower
Built I the lofty tower,
Which, to this very hour,
Stands looking seaward.
“There lived we many years;
Time dried the maiden’s tears;
She had forgot her fears,
She was a mother;
Death closed her mild blue eyes;
Under that tower she lies;
Ne’er shall the sun arise
On such another.
“Still grew my bosom then,
Still as a stagnant fen!
Hateful to me were men,
The sunlight hateful!
In the vast forest here,
Clad in my warlike gear,
Fell I upon my spear,
Oh, death was grateful!
“Thus, seamed with many scars,
Bursting these prison bars,
Up to its native stars
My soul ascended!
There from the flowing bowl
Deep drinks the warrior’s soul,
Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!”
Thus the tale ended. (reply to this comment) |
| | | | | | | | | | | From teenage lobotomy
Thursday, June 29, 2006, 11:43
(Agree/Disagree?)
oh fun, we can post our fav poems
Oh Du, Geliebte meiner 27 Sinne, ich liebe Dir!
Du, Deiner, Dich Dir, ich Dir, Du mir, ---- wir?
Das gehört beiläufig nicht hierher!
Wer bist Du, ungezähltes Frauenzimmer, Du bist, bist Du?
Die Leute sagen, Du wärest.
Laß sie sagen, sie wissen nicht, wie der Kirchturm steht.
Du trägst den Hut auf Deinen Füßen und wanderst auf die Hände,
Auf den Händen wanderst Du.
Halloh, Deine roten Kleider, in weiße Falten zersägt,
Rot liebe ich Anna Blume, rot liebe ich Dir.
Du, Deiner, Dich Dir, ich Dir, Du mir, ----- wir?
Das gehört beiläufig in die kalte Glut!
Anna Blume, rote Anna Blume, wie sagen die Leute?
Preisfrage:
1. Anna Blume hat ein Vogel,
2. Anna Blume ist rot.
3. Welche Farbe hat der Vogel?
Blau ist die Farbe Deines gelben Haares,
Rot ist die Farbe Deines grünen Vogels.
Du schlichtes Mädchen im Alltagskleid,
Du liebes grünes Tier, ich liebe Dir!
Du Deiner Dich Dir, ich Dir, Du mir, ---- wir!
Das gehört beiläufig in die ---- Glutenkiste.
Anna Blume, Anna, A----N----N----A!
Ich träufle Deinen Namen.
Dein Name tropft wie weiches Rindertalg.
Weißt Du es Anna, weißt Du es schon,
Man kann Dich auch von hinten lesen.
Und Du, Du Herrlichste von allen,
Du bist von hinten, wie von vorne:
A------N------N------A.
Rindertalg träufelt STREICHELN über meinen Rücken.
Anna Blume,
Du tropfes Tier,
Ich-------liebe-------Dir!
(reply to this comment) |
| | From wikipedia
Tuesday, July 04, 2006, 07:12
(Agree/Disagree?)
An Anna Blume ( German: "To Anna Flower" also translated as "To Eve Blossom") is one of the most famous poems of the 20th century. It was written in 1919 by the German Dada or rather Merz lyricist Kurt Schwitters. It has been translated into many languages and has inspired many poets to create replies or allusions.
Retrieved from "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/An_Anna_Blume"
Eve Blossom,
Kurt Schwitters' own translation of "An Anna Blume"
Oh thou, beloved of my twenty-seven senses, I love thine! Thou thee
thee thine, I thine,
thou mine, we?
That (by the way) is beside the point!
Who art thou, uncounted woman, Thou art, art thou?
People say, thou werst,
Let them say, they don't know what they are talking about.
Thou wearest thine hat on thy feet, and wanderest on thine hands,
On thine hands thou wanderest
Hallo, thy red dress, sawn into white folds,
Red I love Eve Blossom, red I love thine,
Thou thee thee thine, I thine, thou mine, we?
That (by the way) belongs to the cold glow!
Eve Blossom, red Eve Blossom what do people say?
PRIZE QUESTION: 1. Eve Blossom is red,
2. Eve Blossom has wheels
3. what colour are the wheels?
Blue is the colour of your yellow hair
Red is the whirl of your green wheels,
Thou simple maiden in everyday dress,
Thou small green animal,
I love thine!
Thou thee thee thine, I thine, thou mine, we?
That (by the way) belongs to the glowing brazier!
Eve Blossom,eve,
E - V - E,
E easy, V victory, E easy,
I trickle your name.
Your name drops like soft tallow.
Do you know it, Eve?
Do you already know it?
One can also read you from the back
And you, you most glorious of all,
You are from the back as from the front,
E-V-E.
Easy victory.
Tallow trickles to stroke over my back
Eve Blossom,
Thou drippy animal,
I
Love
Thine!
I love you!!!!(reply to this comment) |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | From Rain Child
Thursday, June 29, 2006, 14:21
(Agree/Disagree?)
I'll tell what my favourite poem is. I have a very har time locating it, so if anyone can find it for me I'll be grateful. (I did find it on someone's blog after doing a search, but I think he got some words wrong.)
It's by e.e. cummings (My favourite poet) and the title is the first line,
'Always before your voice'. The first words are something like,
Always before your voice my soul
half beautiful and wholly droll
Is as some smooth and awkward foal...
It's one of those great poems where pieces of it float into my consciousness all the time, and I ponder them deliciously and mourn for the rest of it. I found it in an old book in my grandparent's house. (They are no longer with us)(reply to this comment) |
| | From vixen
Thursday, June 29, 2006, 14:38
(Agree/Disagree?)
Not sure if this is all of it?
always before your voice my soul
half-beautiful and wholly droll
is as some smooth and awkward foal,
whereof young moons begin
the newness of his skin,
so of my stupid sincere youth
the exquisite failure uncouth
discovers a trembling and smooth
Unstrength,against the strong
silences of your song;
...
while in an earthless hour my fond
soul seriously yearns beyond
this fern of sunset frond on frond
opening in a rare
Slowness of gloried air...
The flute of morning stilled in noon--
noon the implacable bassoon--
now Twilight seeks the thrill of moon,
washed with a wild and thin
despair of violin
(reply to this comment) |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | From vixen
Tuesday, July 04, 2006, 03:08
(Agree/Disagree?)
Oh and here's one that I like:
The Imperfect Enjoyment
Naked she lay, clasped in my longing arms,
I filled with love, and she all over charms;
Both equally inspired with eager fire,
Melting through kindness, flaming in desire.
With arms,legs,lips close clinging to embrace,
She clips me to her breast, and sucks me to her face.
Her nimble tongue, Love's lesser lightning, played
Within my mouth, and to my thoughts conveyed
Swift orders that I should prepare to throw
The all-dissolving thunderbolt below.
My fluttering soul, sprung with the painted kiss,
Hangs hovering o'er her balmy brinks of bliss.
But whilst her busy hand would guide that part
Which should convey my soul up to her heart,
In liquid raptures I dissolve all o'er,
Melt into sperm and, and spend at every pore.
A touch from any part of her had done't:
Her hand, her foot, her very look's a cunt.
Smiling, she chides in a kind murmuring noise,
And from her body wipes the clammy joys,
When, with a thousand kisses wandering o'er
My panting bosom, "Is there then no more?"
She cries. "All this to love and rapture's due;
Must we not pay a debt to pleasure too?"
But I, the most forlorn, lost man alive,
To show my wished obedience vainly strive:
I sigh, alas! and kiss, but cannot swive.
Eager desires confound my first intent,
Succeeding shame does more success prevent,
And rage at last confirms me impotent.
Ev'n her fair hand, which might bid heat return
To frozen age, and make cold hermits burn,
Applied to my dead cinder, warms no more
Than fire to ashes could past flames restore.
Trembling, confused, despairing, limber, dry,
A wishing, weak, unmoving lump I lie.
This dart of love, whose piercing point, oft tried,
With virgin blood ten thousand maids have dyed;
Which nature still directed with such art
That it through every cunt reached every heart -
Stiffly resolved, 'twould carelessly invade
Woman or man, nor aught its fury stayed:
Where'er it pierced, a cunt it found or made -
Now languid lies in this unhappy hour,
Shrunk up and sapless like a withered flower.
Thou treacherous, base deserter of my flame,
False to my passion, fatal to my fame,
Through what mistaken magic dost thou prove
So true to lewdness, so untrue to love?
What oyster-cinder-beggar-common whore
Didst thou e'er fail in all thy life before?
When vice, disease, and scandal lead the way,
With what officious haste dost thou obey!
Like a rude, roaring hector in the streets
Who scuffles, cuffs, and justles all he meets,
But if his king or country claim his aid,
The rakehell villain shrinks and hides his head;
Ev'n so thy brutal valour is displayed,
Breaks every stew, does each small whore invade,
But when great Love the onset does command,
Base recreant to thy prince, thou dar'st not stand.
Worst part of me, and henceforth hated most,
Through all the town a common fucking-post,
On whom each whore relieves her tingling cunt
As hogs do rub themselves on gates and grunt,
May'st thou to ravenous chancres be a prey,
Or in consuming weepings waste away;
May strangury and stone thy days attend;
May'st thou ne'er piss, who did refuse to spend
When all my joys did on false thee depend.
And may ten thousand abler pricks agree
To do the wronged Corinna right for thee.
John Wilmot, Second Earl of Rochester
(reply to this comment) |
| | | | | | | | From Rain Child
Tuesday, July 04, 2006, 05:13
(Agree/Disagree?)
She took my penis in her mouth and bit
down hard. Excruciating pain revives
one so. Awake, alert, on the qui vive,
aroused from revery, at last I get
that she's annoyed with me. "My Dear, forget
your sonnets during foreplay", she suggests.
Admonished thus, I duly re-invest
in my ablutions at her velvet wet
ferret. I slurp with glee. My face is drenched,
as if I'd eaten watermelon. Yum-
Yum! Cherries and the sea!! I deftly French
her runny little cunny till she comes.
Thus must the Poet subjugate his Art
in deference to matters of the heart.
Okay, all they have in common is that they tackle that subject matter head-on. I personally think the one I posted, (by a modern amateur poet) is more respectful of women... But yours is a classic, and grand. I'm going to read it again.(reply to this comment) |
| | From vix is playing English Lit student today
Tuesday, July 04, 2006, 08:08
(Agree/Disagree?)
Heh, well my tongue was placed firmly in cheek when I posted it after your and Andy's much more reverent poems, I hope I didn't bring down the tone of the thread too much. I did really enjoy analysing and discussing this one, though, and amazingly (or maybe not given my utterly hopeless romanticism) I managed to find a rather beautiful interpretation.
It's a fascinating poem when one takes time to consider the wider aspects of Rochester's life and the libertine ethos he lived by. Sexuality and desire, overt and unrestrained debauchedness and hedonistic self-service without a care for social conventions was order of the day for Rochester and his freethinking mates at the Royal Court of Charles II, and his practical jokes, his affairs and his dissipation were legendary. Known for his keen wit and a remarkable gift for satirical commentary, he was possessed of great intellectual power. He helped design a way of life based on style, cleverness and self-interest. Philosophically such behaviour can be seen as an attempt to live the life of a 'natural man' without regard for notions of good and evil which might be considered artifical social checks on natural human desires. <---- Some of that is paraphrased from an entry in the Norton Anthology of English Literature, btw.
I like it because it's searingly honest and brillantly self-deprecating. Although it is crude and on the surface has a definite sense of misogyny about it (not surprising given his infamous escapades and the abject jadedness that would surely have engulfed his being after an extended period of so riotous an existence), I think there is an intellectual undercurrent to it that is quite revealing as to the emotional turmoil of the experience. He is mourning not just his loss of face at having failed to perform in a way that matched the widespread knowledge of his legendary prowess with women - in my view the secondary thrust of this work though at first glance the more obvious one - but rather he is berating himself for having wasted himself on a multitude of women for whom he felt, at the core of him, nothing more than disdain and contempt and having, in the process, spent himself to a degree that now, when he adores a woman and desires to truly give himself to her in heart as well as in body, he finds that he cannot do so. This poem explores much more than the obvious encounter, and in my opinion is a very emotional account of the pain of great personal disappointment.
Sigh, didn't think I was going to write a mini-essay there, but oh well, what a bonus for you, eh! ;-)
I need to watch The Libertine. I saw Johnny Depp on telly last night and damn, that man is just about the sexiest thing to walk the face of the earth. Not quite, but almost. Rawr!
I apologise for any misspellings and grammatical errors, I wrote this quickly and I am not going to proofread it.
(reply to this comment) |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | from
Monday, June 26, 2006 - 21:10
(Agree/Disagree?)
This is good. All true.
(reply to this comment)
| from Rain Child
Monday, June 26, 2006 - 14:58
(Agree/Disagree?)
Once again, this article has been butchered by the removal of all bold and italics.
(reply to this comment)
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