Altmania!

[Tzara]

This forum needs its own game show. We've been running soap operas too long.

I thought about proposing American Idle, but many of you are not American. While I'm sure you're all idle too, the logistics of hosting separate competitions is too much for my dysfunctional mind to bear. (There will be no Belize Idle. What would be the point?)

So, inspired by Liar's very public mitotic division, I'm suggesting instead Altmania! or, Name that Poet.

Here's the idea:

1. Write a poem in a style or voice that is dissimilar to your own. (Or just the same, for that matter. That could be an excellent subterfuge.)
2. PM the poem to me along with some Alt name. (This way you don't have the hassle of actually creating an alt.)
3. I post the poem and invite people to guess who really wrote it. Rude comments on the poet's style (or lack of it) may be encouraged. Commentors should say what about the poem makes them think that it was written by whomever they guessed.
4. After some time period (as yet to be determined) I reveal the real author to general frivolity and embarrassment.

This, at best, needs refinement, and I am open to suggestion.

What say ye, though? Want to try this, or should I go back to trying to get you all to read about Alan Turing?

 

[Tzara]

Hey. Just realized that if you post here as being interested, then you're a suspect.

Just PM me if you're interested. If enough people are, I'll set it up.

 

[RhymeFairy]

I like this ~!!

My style ...

Thinking everyone here knows my style.
BUT, I might surprise ya'll. If the timing is right, meaning the deadline would need to be more than a few days ... So count me in. I will be thinking long and hard on this one. Finally, a challenge I can sink my teeth into.

Thank you Tzara

 

[RhymeFairy]

Hey. Just realized that if you post here as being interested, then you're a suspect.

Just PM me if you're interested. If enough people are, I'll set it up.

Grrrr ... you could not have posted that ... 10 min. earlier !!!



edited to add ....

I have emailed this thread to a lottttt of friends (cover-up complete)

 

[Tzara]

Grrrr ... you could not have posted that ... 10 min. earlier !!!



edited to add ....

I have emailed this thread to a lottttt of friends (cover-up complete)

Sorry, dear. Me being stupid.

 

[My Erotic Trail]

Grrrr ... you could not have posted that ... 10 min. earlier !!!



edited to add ....

I have emailed this thread to a lottttt of friends (cover-up complete)

under cover <grin

 

[Tzara]

Prizes. (Not Champagne. Unless she says it's OK.)

Game shows need prizes. So...

People who correctly guess the real author of the poem can choose from one of these prizes. Tell them, Don Pardo. . .

• A luxurious trip along the waves of syntax is our first prize. A book of poems by one of our favorite authors, TRM. A copy of Rise, Fall and Acceptance is behind Door Number 1.
• Mystery, madness, and some guy who can't write. Behind door number two is a copy of the elegant and artistically satisfying poetry journal Barking Dogs edited by our buds bogusbrig and dcpoet44. Issue number 1. You want this one. I'm in it.
• For those with a more, um, frisky nature, door number three features Barking Dogs number 2, fresh off the press. The best of erotic poetry featuring many fine Litster poets.

This offer is limited by my financial exposure. The first person who guesses right wins. Others may receive prizes too, based on my salary, financial exposure, and consumption of Russian River Chardonnay.

 

[treebomb]

catch me if you can

down Orchard Avenue
quarter mile from the orthodox church
where the Russian women
come out for walks with dogsticks
and shawled against the riverwind
which blows 9 miles up from Jenner
where the water spills
and the Kings swim silver
in October when the rains came
and swelled the river close to the
backstairs,

and you told me of days when
from the backdeck you could spit in the
wildwater, until the sherrif boat snatched
you both and the muddy Russian
swallowed the house,

the memory house
on Orchard avenue.

 

[eagleyez]

hmmmm....

interesting idea.

 

[GlassBottomButt]

Geoffrey, there is a head in the dumbwaiter.

Really? Who's head is it, Matilda?

I believe it belongs to the butler.

Ah ha!

Ah ha?

The scones. We have our answer for their delay.

Geoffrey, weary of waiting for his scone,
had contemplated suicide -- again.
Then he considered a thin bannock,
but his buds were fucking on his tongue,
a slow scone-with-honey kind of fuck.

Whereas, Matilda had been tasting
a lightly buttered tattie scone.
She could taste many things in the air:
Geoffrey's ass,
kind words that never come,
the butler's underpants.

What a shame. He was a sturdy and prompt man.

Indeed. Let's leave his head for Mother to find.

 

[Tzara]

I see that the audience has already taken over the show. Perhaps that is for the best.

Godspeed, GBB.

Prizes still apply. Guess, people.

 

[sweetjain]

. . . . .

 

[Decayed Angel]

down Orchard Avenue
quarter mile from the orthodox church
where the Russian women
come out for walks with dogsticks
and shawled against the riverwind
which blows 9 miles up from Jenner
where the water spills
and the Kings swim silver
in October when the rains came
and swelled the river close to the
backstairs,

and you told me of days when
from the backdeck you could spit in the
wildwater, until the sherrif boat snatched
you both and the muddy Russian
swallowed the house,

the memory house
on Orchard avenue.

When the rain swelled the river close to the backstairs my first thought was... Wicked Eve, she'd remember a house on Orchard Avenue...

 

[Angeline]

When the rain swelled the river close to the backstairs my first thought was... Wicked Eve, she'd remember a house on Orchard Avenue...

I think Glass Bottom Butt's poem is Eve's. It has that morbid quirky quality she sometimes writes and the av name is so her, well the humor of it.

 

[WickedEve]

down Orchard Avenue
quarter mile from the orthodox church
where the Russian women
come out for walks with dogsticks
and shawled against the riverwind
which blows 9 miles up from Jenner
where the water spills
and the Kings swim silver
in October when the rains came
and swelled the river close to the
backstairs,

and you told me of days when
from the backdeck you could spit in the
wildwater, until the sherrif boat snatched
you both and the muddy Russian
swallowed the house,

the memory house
on Orchard avenue.

RainMan.
I think that sounds like his alt. Treebomb is a euphemism for an erupting phallus. And it's possible that he's a Russian woman.
If not. Then it's Angeline. Who is not a Russian woman.

 

[WickedEve]

Geoffrey, there is a head in the dumbwaiter.

Really? Who's head is it, Matilda?

I believe it belongs to the butler.

Ah ha!

Ah ha?

The scones. We have our answer for their delay.

Geoffrey, weary of waiting for his scone,
had contemplated suicide -- again.
Then he considered a thin bannock,
but his buds were fucking on his tongue,
a slow scone-with-honey kind of fuck.

Whereas, Matilda had been tasting
a lightly buttered tattie scone.
She could taste many things in the air:
Geoffrey's ass,
kind words that never come,
the butler's underpants.

What a shame. He was a sturdy and prompt man.

Indeed. Let's leave his head for Mother to find.

champagne1982
The alt is hers.
Champagne glass=glass ass
And she has a secret desire to taste underpants.

 

[WickedEve]

I think Glass Bottom Butt's poem is Eve's. It has that morbid quirky quality she sometimes writes and the av name is so her, well the humor of it.

When have I ever been morbid or mentioned my butt?

 

[Angeline]

When have I ever been morbid or mentioned my butt?

I'm assuming this is a rhetorical question, pumpkin boobs.

 

[WickedEve]

I'm assuming this is a rhetorical question, pumpkin boobs.

When have I ever displayed my pumpkins?

 

[WickedEve]

I'm assuming this is a rhetorical question, pumpkin boobs.

By the way, aren't they a great set of boobs?
I have sooo much fun with them.
Right now they are overflowing from cups in a nice shade of periwinkle. Though, I may set them free and let them swing around and knock over furniture and stuff.

 

[Angeline]

By the way, aren't they a great set of boobs?
I have sooo much fun with them.
Right now they are overflowing from cups in a nice shade of periwinkle. Though, I may set them free and let them swing around and knock over furniture and stuff.

Yeah they're a marvel.

I'm wearing a black, rather flattening bra right now. I have to go to work soon and I need to rein the girls in. Ah but tonight I'll be home and I can bust out and knock ee into next week with em.

Tzara, I'm assuming you don't mind this brief hijack.

And I know who those poets are. I have great confidence. I'll take doors number one and three. I got door number two already.

 

[WickedEve]

Yeah they're a marvel.

I'm wearing a black, rather flattening bra right now. I have to go to work soon and I need to rein the girls in. Ah but tonight I'll be home and I can bust out and knock ee into next week with em.

Tzara, I'm assuming you don't mind this brief hijack.

And I know who those poets are. I have great confidence. I'll take doors number one and three. I got door number two already.

boob talk is always a good reason for a thread jack.
Maybe that treebomb poet is ee. Poor ee who's in next week.



I need wood glue for the kitchen table. What's left of the kitchen table.

 

[Tzara]

We have our first winner

I think Glass Bottom Butt's poem is Eve's. It has that morbid quirky quality she sometimes writes and the av name is so her, well the humor of it.

Ange is correct in identifying Glass Bottom Butt's poem as being by Eve.

I'll put the next one up in a couple minutes.

I can't tell you who treebomb is, though. I don't know. I would guess ee, because the poem has that quirky run-on quality that his do and there are fish in it. But I could very well be wrong.

 

[Tzara]

Altmania #2 by Mimi Cries

Finkelstein Reaction

One halogen traded off
for another of the same

but you, your generic face,
I’m afraid I can’t exchange.


Guess away, folks.

 

[champagne1982]

down Orchard Avenue
quarter mile from the orthodox church
where the Russian women
come out for walks with dogsticks
and shawled against the riverwind
which blows 9 miles up from Jenner
where the water spills
and the Kings swim silver
in October when the rains came
and swelled the river close to the
backstairs,

and you told me of days when
from the backdeck you could spit in the
wildwater, until the sherrif boat snatched
you both and the muddy Russian
swallowed the house,

the memory house
on Orchard avenue.

Maria2394 aka Normal Jean aka J ...