Art is not beauty, it is the lie that leads to it. - Leonora Carrington
Hey!, you people from the future: These Challenges are forever! Feel free to add something new.
For links to all the Challenges, just click the P.S. button below:
Challenge #1 - Cut Up Folktale can be found here.
Challenge #2 - Death by Words can be found here.
Challenge #3 - Utterly Mistaken can be found here.
Challenge #4 - Word Dog Run can be found here.
Challenge #5 - Queen's Dreams can be found here.
Challenge X - Bucket Brigade can be found here.
"This first IISZ challenge, the poems were too good", said the Queen, "these peasants
have gotten cocky, acted above their station... methinks they're in need of a lesson."
When we begged the Queen not to do it, she turned to us and historically
uttered: "Let them eat cake".
The Queen has spoken, She hath proclaimed it... and obey we must.
IIce Station Zebra Challenge #2 - Death by Words:
Write a poem, prose-poem, or prose piece which contains 17 or more of the 69 words below:
(Gender, tense, and plurality may be changed.)
Challenges will be posted slightly before 6am GMT which is 1am in New York City,
6am in London, 2pm in Manila, 5pm in Sydney, and 7pm in Auckland.
There will be 6 more challenges. The third challenge will be posted Tuesday Jan 16.
And the rest will follow, one every 3 days: Jan 19, 22, 25, 28, and 31.
"We didn't do it, nobody saw us do it, there's no way you can prove anything", said the IISZ Team:
rayheinrich: Head Chief Executive Head ( HCEH )
lizzie: Senior Executive Vice President for Creativity and Chaos ( VPCC )
quixilated: Executive Vice President for Narratives and Perplexity ( VPNP )
vagabond: Executive Vice President for Quonundra and Qwertyness ( VPQQ )
a brightly colored fungus that grows in bark inclusions
01-14-2018, 12:32 AM (This post was last modified: 01-14-2018, 02:15 AM by Todd.)
Moose and Squirrel
One burden of childhood is time,
hour stacked upon hour
a wall of bricks stretching
into an endless forever.
You learn this first at school
through the torture of the hands
of the clock that will not move,
no matter how hard you stare.
Eternity is cruel when you’re always waiting
under your desk, like my mother was
paralyzed by the siren, the inevitable
extinction, that blinds, then burns, leaving
your shadow an immortal chalk drawing
as what you were emptied from the room,
a spilled cup that no longer has to stand
amidst the devastation, under the nun’s waiting
ruler to spell that final word.
For me, oblivion was as far away as the dinosaurs.
We still counted missiles in our icy war
our gun was bigger, or it wasn’t.
It became a game of spies at recess. After-
school we would sit eye-damagingly close
to a black and white
television, its ears stretching
like the rabbit, our fool magician hero could never
seem to pull from the hat between his antlers.
He would tear away his sleeve, and reach down.
Instead of a bunny, he would reveal a savage beast.
Sing now, O Muse,
dragons’ burning joy,
cruel burden of a race
doomed to extinction.
Once awesome lords,
savage recipients of
sacrifice and loathing,
paragons of passion,
trauma, torture, and
slaughter, icy karma—
never guilt or weak worry—
threatened their presumed
immortality.
Mortals learned to offer
victims to their blind desire
whereat daredevil heroes—
knights and saints
blessed with heavenly power—
would wound and devastate
hotheaded dragons,
victory a miracle.
As their race declined,
beckoned to oblivion,
dragonkind faced doom with
misery, burning tears,
wrenching sorrow, and—
in their last centuries—
transformation into legend,
spirit, steel, and steam.
Dragon spirits ran on rails,
swam ships on oceans,
lighted cities until,
hearts ablaze, dynamos a-spin,
karma balanced, they begin
plotting revenge.
[Couldn't stop... the challenge didn't say *exactly* seventeen, did it?]
The moon spelled destiny
from trauma and desire:
round and ugly,
a beautiful beacon.
Loathing a bloody wound
with blind, pure, hatred,
attached by invisible strings,
open and seething,
while hotheaded oblivion rose
to immortality, infinite and savage,
dust easily between two fingers
and great distance.
Hugs and kisses dear, remember our
Oath? Ten years ago, filled with Tears of joy and angst, fear and
Harmony. How better to spend
Eternity living the dream of your youth? An
Awesome power driven by
Desire. Inevitable
Extinction though is
Destiny, and
Venomous tongues,
Icy and
Cruel,
Torture the prospect of that hopeful promise.
Infinite, dear. Infinite. But, dear...
Misery will never know me
easter is approaching
time to repeat the passion
rewind the miracle of torture
the sacred sacrifice still burns within the book
heavenly eternity emits a soothing light
through pages, even closed.
it is the brilliant hope to vanquish guilt,
the ultimate reward for savagery.
these words
need melting down
to something that i understand
and that is friendly to digest.
cute little bunnies, pressed,
still fail to lay the promised eggs -
they´re ready for the slaughter,
to do their parts within the drama
and leave traces of this blood,
so sweet and innocent,
as they are kissed and cherished
by traumatic mouths.
non-newtonian liquid
you form a wall,
the consistency of cornstarch
in a bowl of water.
this liquid´s a peculiar suspension
of molecules remaining mysteries
and provides oblivion
for miseries.
you are a smooth plane.
i stare into this blinded mirror
and cannot force you out of there.
some wicked law of physics
makes you able to resist
my wrenching and my pressure
in equally stubborn measure.
this is a spastic dance
of crazy microscopic harmony,
it leaves no wounds to see, no trace.
not even a reflection would reveal
those memories, stored in the water
and their substance, that is slaughtered.
then i desist, humiliated once again
for all my shattering foolish questions.
i turn away, ashamed
to find i am submerging
and surrounded all along
by infinite and timeless white,
to re-discover it is yours and mine
and feel your silky, savage grip,
within this heavenly confounding flow,
the sacred drowning.
He had trouble wrenching the memory out of his lungs.
He was a hothead then. Now his feet grew cold: his anger and fear knew each other, and gave birth to hate.
There lived a bunny inside of him, which leapt from face to face. Whether it was in his chest or in his pelvis, he could not tell.
What he knew about oblivion went necessarily unrequited.
His most hated word was awesome, the memory had sapped all meaning out of it.
So savage were his nails, that they spared no one's sight.
It was a hallucination he would never forget: his garden withering in the oppressive heat.
He seemed more forgetful than weak. He proved a brilliant actor.
Doom was no well-liked term either, but at least it had no substitute.
He cherished them for their weakness, and their tenderness, and their straightforwardness; for their small breasts, and their smooth skins, and their soft muscles.
At least he didn't leave them bloody after every encounter.
It is not the moon, I tell you. / It is these flowers / lighting the yard.
She's cute.
How could there be an after to something that hasn't happened yet? How could he reap misery from humiliations yet sown?
All he knew about immortality, he'd found on the internet.
And an icy voice replied to him. Whether it was God or insomnia, he could not tell.
(01-15-2018, 06:56 AM)Tiger the Lion Wrote: And it Came with Roses!
Sweetheart,
you stood there for an eternity
brushing your teeth
at the bathroom sink
your awesome little bum
wigglin' in those kooky bunny pajamas
without a worry in the world
approaching the day like a daredevil
while I sat self-loathing
at the end of the bed
in a karmic paralysis
of shame
about the night before
how I'd turned
my guilt into your grief
how your infinite coolheadedness
mocked my savage crazy
how your sacred tears
left me a wounded kitten
too weak to be tortured
a puppy
asking not to be drowned
Minor point because I do like this. Usually, kittens are the ones to be drowned (thank you, Grandpa, for burning this into my childhood memories). Though any atrocity is possible I guess. I just think this might benefit from flipping the animal references.
(01-14-2018, 12:32 AM)Todd Wrote: Moose and Squirrel
One burden of childhood is time,
hour stacked upon hour
a wall of bricks stretching
into an endless forever.
You learn this first at school
through the torture of the hands
of the clock that will not move,
no matter how hard you stare.
Eternity is cruel when you’re always waiting
under your desk, like my mother was
paralyzed by the siren, the inevitable
extinction, that blinds, then burns, leaving
your shadow an immortal chalk drawing
as what you were emptied from the room,
a spilled cup that no longer has to stand
amidst the devastation, under the nun’s waiting
ruler to spell that final word.
For me, oblivion was as far away as the dinosaurs.
We still counted missiles in our icy war
our gun was bigger, or it wasn’t.
It became a game of spies at recess. After-
school we would sit eye-damagingly close
to a black and white
television, its ears stretching
like the rabbit, our fool magician hero could never
seem to pull from the hat between his antlers.
He would tear away his sleeve, and reach down.
Instead of a bunny, he would reveal a savage beast.
Hi Todd! this gets better with every read, i shamefully admit i didn´t even get the cold war reference at first. and i still wonder about the last stanza with the savage beast.
Thanks, vagabond! 17 words made this one way longer than a normally would go--so it was a fun exercise. I also got to annoy my kids by adopting an accent and doing a moose and squirrel routine. It is so rare that I get to annoy them back. So, two good outcomes from this.
(01-15-2018, 11:31 PM)Todd Wrote: I also got to annoy my kids by adopting an accent and doing a moose and squirrel routine. It is so rare that I get to annoy them back. So, two good outcomes from this.
pity that only one of them´s shared here : )
(i´m sure your kids were secretely delighted)
The sky, so savage,
offered its bloody sacrifice,
the harmony viewed by planets.
I the cruel crowd
blind to the gladiators fall,
a slave longing for such sight
forever placed beside this burden.
A millstone on the miracle,
an infinite hillside on eternity.
I reach along this pure expanse,
weak beneath my heavy feet,
the slaughter drips, complete.
hi keith! this is interesting to interpret and i probably didn´t get your intended meaning (but as people keep telling me this is not the most important thing).
boxed to not spoil other´s interpretations:
mainly makes me think of someone on a mountain hike, weary but amazed.
took "slaughter" as "sweat" in that view and "complete" has a very satisfying feel that way.
i couldn´t connect the gladiators´ fall to anything specific in the poem, but definitely like the insight about crowds and gladiators.
"millstone on the miracle" made me think about how mountains don´t vanish through erosion, just turn to hillsides.
alternatively it could be more dramatic, "fell", that old norse word made me associate those mountains with gods or maybe a volcano eruption, which in a way brings harmony to the planet´s pressured insides. the sky is definitely savage then..
Don't worry, sweetheart, tears are cleansing.
I know it's a savage world: the moon barely sparkles,
misery is around every corner, icy people pitch nothing but karma,
the city's traded hugs for humiliation, love for guilt, passion for disgrace;
don't drown in their Doomtown, darling. Take your cute hunny-bunny self
and rescue the lost and forgotten, the wounded, the weak; just do it, kill your misery,
find joy in an eternity of kisses, be a lovely, wonderful, awesome fool. Go ahead!
01-17-2018, 02:44 PM (This post was last modified: 01-17-2018, 03:03 PM by Quixilated.)
The 69 ways
"Love is blind!" is a bloody farce.
Imagine, Bunny, this burden of care,
the burning desire to cherish your mate
even when to do so would seem crazy.
Love is cruel, not cute.
It takes a daredevil, like you, Darling,
to desire the kind of destiny
that will only devastate you in the end.
This path leads to disgrace, to your doom,
your good nature will drown
in the emptiness of loneliness for all eternity.
Extinction awaits the fool
who thinks forever won't lead to grief.
In the end guilt eats away at harmony.
No matter how heavenly the beginning
one hotheaded word hugs the lungs
in the suffocating vice of humiliation.
From that point on you face icy silence.
Immortality is for those who believe in infinite joy.
For us, karma is the kiss of death.
Maybe once I called you "Kitten,"
or said that you were adorably kooky,
and now those same traits fill me with loathing.
I find myself longing for a millstone,
like a miracle, to end this misery.
Under the moon you would swear an oath,
you are blinded by love's oblivion.
But I know that paralysis follows passion.
Sure, for now you are all puppy love,
as pure and sweet as the first rose in spring.
For now, every look is sacred,
every selfish desire becomes a sacrifice
to the savage rituals new lover's perform
all in the name of serendipity.
What a shame it always ends
with shattering of hearts
and slaughter of idyllic bliss.
Love makes you a slave, Sweetheart.
Dry your tears, Darling, I will torture you no longer.
I see my words are causing needless trauma.
I have become venomous perhaps.
Too often I have played the victim,
too often I have been so weak.
But do not worry, it is an old wound,
I no longer heed the wrenching.
. I know the rules said 17, and that this probably disqualifies. But I have indecisiveness issues and the words mutinied and it became an all or nothing situation. : So that’s what went wrong there.
The Soufflé isn’t the soufflé; the soufflé is the recipe. --Clara
![[Image: BookCoverFlip.jpg]](http://wordbiscuit.com/im20/BookCoverFlip.jpg)
![[Image: BookCover.jpg]](http://wordbiscuit.com/im20/BookCover.jpg)
![[Image: HallmarkLogoSmall.jpg]](http://wordbiscuit.com/im20/HallmarkLogoSmall.jpg)
So that’s what went wrong there.