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Post by Spidey on Apr 22, 2010 23:35:53 GMT
I promised Heather I would post this. That Poetry Dude I Won't Name gets to mark this for 40% of my Creative Writing grade. Aw yeah. Anyway:
“Order up!” yells the fry cook, and the man at the counter g r i m a c e s as he collects it. (But does he have any other expression?) Table five glares as if they're in the desert and he's brought them a space heater. When he puts down the nachos, he flicks a chip with his thumb; it embeds itself in the ceiling. They stop glaring.
No one asks anymore why he wears all black under his apron. (“You must be dying in there,” they said. “Does the mask protect from burns?” they said. “That cape can't be hygienic,” they said.)
His cape: Black as the night never is in the city- -quiet as a graveyard- -dark as his goddamned soul- -it trails across a woman's table and upsets her coffee.
She stands in the aisle, five fierce feet of indignation, and he stops. “Didn't your parents teach you manners, boy?” “My parents-” and his voice is gravel in his throat the growl of territorial defence a sound that fills an alley and stops crime in its tracks “-are dead.”
“Why are you wearing all that black?” asks a little girl. “It's summer.” He stares and he grimaces and he says, “I'm Batman.”
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Post by Someguy on Apr 23, 2010 13:48:44 GMT
Please tell me you did not send this to David Kinloch.
Please.
I jest. This might do well depending on what kind of mood he's in. He's a surrealist poet so if the situation of this tickles him you'll be looking at a decent mark for it.
And if it's not David Kinloch to whom you refer then it's anyone's guess.
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Post by Spidey on Apr 23, 2010 18:14:11 GMT
Well, so much for trying to foil Google. I suppose chances are low that anyone would search his name anyway. Still. This is reason forty-two.
Anyway, he seemed to like the rough draft during the workshop. And I still think mine was the best of my particular group. Arrogant? Yes. A nevertheless accurate assessment of those particular JCW first years? Probably.
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Post by Fire Bear on Apr 23, 2010 21:08:10 GMT
I love it. Pure and simple.
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Post by Spidey on Apr 25, 2010 20:32:11 GMT
Nothing's pure and simple with Batman.
HIS PARENTS ARE DEAD!!!
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Post by Fire Bear on Apr 25, 2010 22:54:45 GMT
So? My parents... .... ... parents... ... ... parents are dead, too. Don't see me going around in a cape cleaning up the streets of a city beginning with the letter G.
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Post by Someguy on Apr 26, 2010 0:23:01 GMT
-said Fire Bear, the completely well-adjusted and not fucked-up in any way at all crime-fighting super-hero(ine).
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Post by Niggle on Apr 26, 2010 10:19:07 GMT
Epic.
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Post by Someguy on Apr 26, 2010 17:49:03 GMT
So's your face.
...
No, it really is. It reminds me of Clash of the Titans; which is an example of an epic film.
...
I'm sorry. (I think).
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Post by Spidey on Apr 26, 2010 17:54:29 GMT
...
Which one? Old film or new film?
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Post by Someguy on Apr 26, 2010 17:58:40 GMT
The one that reminds me of Heather.
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Post by Spidey on Apr 26, 2010 18:01:51 GMT
Ah, touché.
I got a B for this poem, by the way. And a look of revulsion from Ms Wales when she recognised me. Successful day all around, I feel.
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Post by Someguy on Apr 26, 2010 18:50:07 GMT
Excellent work. In an unrelated note, my own poems all got 'A's.
Not that that's relevant at all to the discussion. (Heh)
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Post by McBain on Apr 26, 2010 19:47:52 GMT
Brilliant poem.
Doesn't Ms Wales give all students a look of revulsion?
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Post by Someguy on Apr 29, 2010 22:00:22 GMT
Nope. She seems to regard me with the same kind and pitying look you might impart to a dying pigeon hobbling along on what used to be feet before a car mangled them or whatever it is that happens to a pigeon's feet.
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