Sources

The original plan was
to make this a text where
a historical event shed
metaphorical light
on a current situation
or condition
but minimal research
made it clear that one
had nothing to do
with the other.

Ode to a fly at the window

Bzzt bzzt bzzt
Bzzt bzzt bzzt
Bzzt bzzt bzzt
Bzzt bzzt bzzt
Bzzzzzzt!
Bzzt bzzt bzzt
Bzzt bzzt bzzt
Bzzt bzzt bzzt
For as long as it takes

2015 St. Valentine’s Day Limerick Contest

2015 metamorphosism.com St. Valentine's day Limerick contest

We here at metamorphosism.com have the distinct pleasure to announce the opening of this year’s St. Valentine’s Day Limerick contest. This could possibly be the contest’s 14th year, if you can believe that.

Time flies.

You may be wondering whether there is a prize this year. So far, no. But that could change. Yes, of course there is a prize. The winner will receive a copy of The Bug, a comic book starring Mig Living’s much-loved orthographically-challenged insectoid, tEh Bgu.

Before entering the contest, please read the following rules. As last year, to encourage you to read the rules, instructions on how to enter the contest are hidden within the rules. Contestants please note slight rule changes below, in the bonus theme section.

  1. No fighting.
  2. The three most important things: Scansion, scansion, scansion.
  3. Enter as often as you like. The more often you enter, the better your chances of winning. But read the other rules first.
  4. Violation of any of the following rules may hurt your chances, so please read them carefully.
  5. Also please note that any of the following rules are subject to change without notice, at the whim of the contest organizers and judge(s). This is a feature, not a bug. By entering you accept this fact, and all of the rules, and even proactively accept future rules the current rules may change to at any time.
  6. Entries must be limericks. (This rule never changes, promise.)
  7. Entries should be artful and delight the reader’s artistic sensibilities.
  8. Being limericks, entries may of course be humorous, bawdy, shocking, obscene, etc., but this is not required. All that is required is that the entry be a limerick (A-A-B-B-A rhyme scheme, etc, look it up). The wikipedia article on limericks, for example, is here.
  9. Points are subtracted for violation of any of these rules.
  10. Points are also subtracted arbitrarily in accordance with the application of the algorithm of unfairness.
  11. Bonus points are awarded for incorporation of one or more bonus themes, listed below.
  12. Bonus themes: failed utopias, gender issues, historical political movements, non-Western musical instruments, dipsomania, food poisoning (especially the bacteria that cause it), capitalism, Ayn Rand, sex dolls, historical articles of clothing, parasites that influence the behavior of the host, especially (but not only) in humans, the history of the tuxedo, B-movie tropes, television detective dramas, supernatural despair especially as portrayed in the fiction of Robert W. Chambers, the various proteins on the surface of the influenza virus, historic epidemics, the economics of monopolies.
  13. Bonus themes are subject to change during the contest, possibly rendering entries previously eligible for bonus points suddenly ineligible.
  14. *NEW*: HARDSHIP POINTS Extra hardship points will be awarded to limericks written without the letter “E”.
  15. But don’t worry, it’s all good.
  16. Entries should be submitted in the comments to this post.
  17. Deadline is 14 February, winners will be announced 14 February.
  18. Judging and other procedures in the conduct of this contest pretend to be crooked, but they are actually pretty fair, but there is never any guarantee this will be the case this time. Just assume the contest is crooked and unfair and you won’t be disappointed.
  19. Complaints will be deleted.
  20. There is no right to, nor avenue of, appeal.
  21. You may enter as often as you like. So check back often to read all the new entries and see if the rules have changed, or the bonus themes.
  22. By entering the contest, you grant metamorphosism.com permission to publish your entry (here in the comments where you enter it, and possibly on facebook or twitter, to publicize the contest) but you retain all rights to your entries.
  23. Feel free to email me at metamorphosist@gmail.com if you have any questions or find one particular limerick especially great or whatever.
  24. Please have fun.
  25. Last, but not least: my deep thanks to my talented friend Bran Fox for designing the logo for this year’s contest, as in so many years past.

 

 

Winners of the 2010 metamorphosism.com St. Valentine’s Day Limerick Contest

First of all, thanks to all entrants in this year’s contest, and special thanks to A.C. Teathorn, who kindly agreed to adjudicate this year. Both the volume and quality of the entries makes judging a difficult job, and it’s always nice to have someone else do a difficult job.

Rather than single non-winners out for praise, which only risks pissing people off, let me say only that A.C. Teathorn and I agreed on the high quality of most entries and think you people are really great.

For the first time (I think, and I’m too lazy to check past contests, plus it’s Valentine’s Day and I have to go make waffles in a second) we have a tie for first place, which is the only place that will win an actual prize, seeing as how I am not made of books. So, without further ado, our winners:

Mr. TC: First Place, for the sweetest limerick of this year’s contest

Ms. MN: First Place, for being a genius, among other things.

Thanks to everyone who participated.

Mr. Cand Ms. MN, your prizes are as good as in the mail, as soon as I get around to binding them. Please email me  your preferred mailing addresses.

Darkling I listen

John Keats was sitting at his kitchen table. Everyone else was asleep. He was drinking filter coffee and wishing espresso wasn’t such a pain in the ass to make.

It was very humid. He was trying to write something.

He wrote, “Blah, blah, blah.”

He wrote,

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call’d him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a…

John Keats took a drink of coffee. He wondered what time it was. He looked at the corner of the journal he was writing in, as if there would be a clock there, and marveled slightly at the way use of computers colors one’s use of print media.

“Darkling I listen,” he read.

Then the cat ran into the kitchen. It ran in circles as if something were chasing it. It stopped, then it started again, in full panic mode. John Keats squinted, and perceived that the cat had a petunia stuck to its asshole.

The cat ran back out of the kitchen.

John Keats went into the living room and meditated. Then he got the kid off to school, and went to work.

The Waste Land (v 2.0)

THE WASTE LAND

(from a manuscript recently discovered in the stuffing of a sock puppet)

“Quantum materiae materietur marmota monax si marmota monax materiam
possit materiari?

I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD

I take it back, April is not the cruellest month,
But June, breeding
Slugs out of nowhere, geeze
Where do they all come from, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, they say
Not much snow, and April, so hot, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised you, didn’t it, dude?
Everything looked fine, the tomatoes so tall
Lettuce so lush, until, with a shower of rain, we swarmed
And went on in sunlight, into the Salatgarten,
And ate radishes, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Schnecke, sondern Nacktschnecke, echt hungrig.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

What are the roots of that beet, whose branches are
So very tasty? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, devoured beets,
And the dead row of peas gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
This is where we hide, nice and cool, during the day
When your shadow at evening rises to meet you;
We emerge, slimy flashmob, today’s the lettuce’s turn.
Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu
Mein Irisch Kind,
Wo weilest du?
Heulst salzig’ Tränen
Im Salatgarten!
“You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
“They called me the hyacinth slug.”
– Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Our bellies full, and trail slimy and glittering
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
I thought I would burst
Od’ und leer das Meer.

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Floating belly-up in Schwechater. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, we’ll skip her
Kids read this blog
Here is the man with saucers, and here the ale,
And here is the desperate gardener, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by flat beer.
I see crowds of people, reading about this on Twitter.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.

Unreal City,
Under the foggy dew of an Austrian dawn,
A crowd flowed over Mig’s vegetable garden, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each slug fixed his eyes upon a saucer full of beer.
Flowed up the rim and down into it, kersplash
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying “Yo, Mig!
“You who planted me the red beets and peas!
“That lettuce you planted last week in your garden,
“Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this week?
“Or have we sudden slugs disturbed its bed?