Several weeks ago, two men's fantasies became a reality. A sudden realization of the Internet for what it truly was: a giant arena for poetical combat. We have spent our collective fortunes on Poetry Stadium in order to bring you:
The Iron Poet
The rules:
The rules:
Two men, 34 syllables, one topic. Topics are assigned on Monday, courtesy of www.m-w.com. On the Thursday of the following week, poetical genius will be delivered to you.
Your metrical gladiators:
Michael Shogun — born Ryōri no Tetsujin — a man scarred by his warrior past. Abandoning his implements of combat, he traded mastery of the battlefield for knowledge of a new, more powerful, more deadly art. Three mystic numbers: 5 . . . 7 . . . 5.
ajd: an English sailor, pilot of the Erasmus, a Dutch trader-warship, and known to some as the anjin-san. Marooned in Nippon, he quickly abandoned his old ways and became a master of the ancient art of . . . haiku.
Your task:
Select the Iron Poet! Vote by commenting on the appropriate website.
This week's word:
lucullan
NOTE: We're delayed a week thanks to ajd and I battling hordes of ikko-ikki, militant Buddhist monks who have just thrown things into a huge tizzy. Battle commences tomorrow.
ON DINNER
"This place is great! Let's eat some sort of mollusk or crustacean again!"
ON DATING
"Saw old Millie Beals again down at the gas station. She was buying her weekly ration of Riunite and Pabst. For a 50-year-old woman, she looks like a fantastic 90-year-old. I threw it in her anyway, of course."
ON SURVIVAL
"The water's out again. I drank my own urine to stay alive because the ground is too frozen to dig a new well."
ON WILDLIFE
"The goddammed deer are back again. The same doe I shot at with my thirty ought-six last week keeps nosing around the compost bin, even though there hasn't been anything edible in there for years. I threw it in her anyway, of course."
cowboys loss deprives
of gisele-simpson catfight
boners sadly fade
- Access to better burritos