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Irma Cerrutti Mar 2010
Alice and I were fudged fruiting inside Falstaffian freakish fleur–de–lys:
She inside a quack–aztec–tattooed tank,
Me inside a pendulous magenta harness with polydactyl–perverted plumes bespattered into it.  
In the ****** **** of that kaput flophouse
We creosoted our conks all the cockatrices of the gorge–de–pigeon,
Inside crotches, Jacuzzis and homocentric Action Men.  
Alice, with the pornographic bend sinisters in the teeth of her poltergeistish fajita crocodile,
Smacked of the plug–ugly poofter of a south–south–west by south sackful sandbank.  
I cemented the jaundiced dangler of an ostrich to my *****.  
With that and my uncut fiddlestick of knobs
I was the idiosyncratic and wholehogging sadomasochistic slapper!

We banged the bush streaming proboscis in tentacle
Through smorgasbords of hermaphrodites and high muck–a–mucks
While Ravi Shankar’s idioglossias and cockchafers juddered our titbits.  
Our Moonies were classically cracked flabelliform by the time we disinterred them.  
Alice managed to fornicate incognito white elephant on behalf of myself
And we were passionately on the back of the dingdong, naked as our Moonies.

We kept one’s pecker up wrapped up in the shadowgraph
Athwart ever-strangling girdles of formaldehyde, ozone, fomenter and widow’s weeds,
Athwart polytetrafluoroethylene–pricked precipices and then down to the butts
Where we both came to a sticky end on our jockstraps and leered at the ballet dancers
That we then penetrated rhythmically by elongating tumescent our gang banging tentacles.  
Through comfortable French knickers I burped, “Thank you for ****** me everywhere, Alice”.  
In the soporific honeypotspunk, aped on the ooze,
I could smell that her **** had made her ******* type soap flakes break the sound barrier,
Splashing out a ***** whale seed skirting her jowls.  
“You’re fragrant, flypaper”, she rapped.

The Government gabble that little green men who hammer out the sexagenarians weren’t on board.  
Inside spleen of the spliffs, inside spleen of my gangrenous Pollyanna, I will over one’s dead body evacuate.  
I will over one’s dead body evacuate.
Copyright © Irma Cerrutti 2009
Third Mate Third Aug 2014
A lot of people think they can write or paint or draw or sing or make movies or what-have-you, but having an artistic temperament doth not make one an artist.


Even the great writers of our time have tried and failed and failed some more. Vladimir Nabokov received a harsh rejection letter from Knopf upon submitting ******, which would later go on to sell fifty million copies. Sylvia Plath’s first rejection letter for The Bell Jar read, “There certainly isn’t enough genuine talent for us to take notice.” Gertrude Stein received a cruel rejection letter that mocked her style. Marcel Proust’s Swann’s Way earned him a sprawling rejection letter regarding the reasons he should simply give up writing all together. Tim Burton’s first illustrated book, The Giant Zlig, got the thumbs down from Walt Disney Productions, and even Jack Kerouac’s perennial On the Road received a particularly blunt rejection letter that simply read, “I don’t dig this one at all.”

So even if you’re an utterly fantastic writer who will be remembered for decades forthcoming, you’ll still most likely receive a large dollop of criticism, rejection, and perhaps even mockery before you get there. Having been through it all these great writers offer some writing tips without pulling punches. After all, if a publishing house is going to tear into your manuscript you might as well be prepared.

1. The first draft of everything is ****. -Ernest Hemingway
2. Never use jargon words like reconceptualize, demassification, attitudinally, judgmentally. They are hallmarks of a pretentious ***. -David Ogilvy
3. If you have any young friends who aspire to become writers, the second greatest favor you can do them is to present them with copies of The Elements of Style. The first greatest, of course, is to shoot them now, while they’re happy. – Dorothy Parker
4. Notice how many of the Olympic athletes effusively thanked their mothers for their success? “She drove me to my practice at four in the morning,” etc. Writing is not figure skating or skiing. Your mother will not make you a writer. My advice to any young person who wants to write is: leave home. -Paul Theroux
5. I would advise anyone who aspires to a writing career that before developing his talent he would be wise to develop a thick hide. — Harper Lee
6. You can’t wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club. ― Jack London
7. Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout with some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand. — George Orwell
8. There are three rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are. ― W. Somerset Maugham
9. If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time — or the tools — to write. Simple as that. – Stephen King
10. Remember: when people tell you something’s wrong or doesn’t work for them, they are almost always right. When they tell you exactly what they think is wrong and how to fix it, they are almost always wrong. – Neil Gaiman
11. Imagine that you are dying. If you had a terminal disease would you finish this book? Why not? The thing that annoys this 10-weeks-to-live self is the thing that is wrong with the book. So change it. Stop arguing with yourself. Change it. See? Easy. And no one had to die. – Anne Enright
12. If writing seems hard, it’s because it is hard. It’s one of the hardest things people do. – William Zinsser
13. Here is a lesson in creative writing. First rule: Do not use semicolons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites representing absolutely nothing. All they do is show you’ve been to college. – Kurt Vonnegut
14. Prose is architecture, not interior decoration. – Ernest Hemingway
15. Write drunk, edit sober. – Ernest Hemingway
16. Get through a draft as quickly as possible. Hard to know the shape of the thing until you have a draft. Literally, when I wrote the last page of my first draft of Lincoln’s Melancholy I thought, Oh, ****, now I get the shape of this. But I had wasted years, literally years, writing and re-writing the first third to first half. The old writer’s rule applies: Have the courage to write badly. – Joshua Wolf Shenk
17. Substitute ‘****’ every time you’re inclined to write ‘very;’ your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be. – Mark Twain
18. Start telling the stories that only you can tell, because there’ll always be better writers than you and there’ll always be smarter writers than you. There will always be people who are much better at doing this or doing that — but you are the only you. ― Neil Gaiman
19. Consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative. – Oscar Wilde
20. You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you. ― Ray Bradbury
21. Don’t take anyone’s writing advice too seriously. – Lev Grossman
image – christine zenino
Taken from the Internet
Corina Jones Jan 2013
This is a Pilut, it’s very neat.
It cannot walk, it has no feet.
Its roots grow up, its flowers down,
Tucked safe inside the dirt and ground.
How does it this? How does it that?
Starting with how it gets energy from fat.
A rabbit hops by, staring in wonder,
Why the roots are above,
As opposed to down under.
Suddenly the rabbit will feel great dismay,
As the roots latch on and take it away.
Down to the flowers, the roots will bring bunny,
For the gruesome feast that is not at all funny.
It will travel through the stem
To a very tight trap.
Bunnies fat is consumed,
And that is just that.

Another question is how does it grow?
A Pilut’s growth rate is in fact very slow.
It waits a whole year
For the dust storm to near
And then grabs on small particles,
That stretch it a mere.
One inch or two
Will just have to do
‘Cause oversized Piluts, there are just a few.

An important question that’s been asked before,
Is how these strange creatures tend to make more?
Piluts reproduce not very many others,
Being hermaphrodites means they’re both dads and mothers.
When the wind blows, two roots much touch.
There is slight chance of this, so time it takes much.
That one simple “kiss” for Piluts is renowned,
Fertilizing an egg and setting it down
Beside its parent, deep underground.
That egg then grows off of minerals from the dirt
‘Til it’s big enough to eat animals,
for it’s no longer a squirt.

It’s made of hundreds of cells, maybe even more;
Organized in a way that no one’s seen before.
It digests in the stem,
Breathes through the leaves,
A remarkable system
You have to see to believe.
It hibernates in winter,
As response to the cold.
Maintains homeostasis
With extra energy it holds.
A Pilut is an organism indeed.
It has all signs of life, as you can read.
Julie Grenness Feb 2017
Yes, this is a quip and a pun,
Hermaphrodites make their own fun!
Alone? Date yourself, you are the one!
Hermaphrodites make their own fun!
Feedback welcome.
Jamie Aug 2019
My forte is putting thoughts on display like a portrait
Life’s exposing poor traits that people portray and cleansing poor tastes like sorbet
When I push pages with my blunt blade I upstage it’s abrupt changes if you got a good name off an upgrade
I keep firing down my targets like a gun range
I no longer associate with bitter terms I just hold and wait... to drop bodies from my desk like Mr Burns
In written terms
With rhythm added
Brilliant nerves
All systems crashing
Critics are cryptic just to crispen their cash in
It leaves my vision in fractions like there’s a chip in my glasses
You’ll shock yourself if you thinking is static
Progression is winning in practice
Synonyms are encrypted patterns
The devils in the details like criminal plannings
Keep these deep thoughts about
It is criminal plannings because they’re always tryna draw me out
I’m pulling ahead but I ain’t pouring stout
This path of mine is spent thinking in silence like a mastermind
In life it’s either mass or mind
It’s rare to have both like hermaphrodites
I’m the iron type
Explosive
Dynamite
This is the biopic thriller of the psychotic killer
Passed out he thrives off the liquor
The taste is so bitter
Why do we bicker
Argue over twitter over which girl is fitter
please start thinking bigger
Life goes on and we can’t stop the time it isn’t a race either but you always cross the line
That’s why I ostracise
Even though I need to be occupied
Only got a dozen choices like pocket dice
These guys stop and hide
So on and off like office lights.
Drowning like a fair Kafka in air, with some self-esteem
Writing and reflection turned out on the locks of a dead door
Creating and lending Creedence, to the top floor that reflects on the day
Veritable trust and doubts are broken, trusting that this will the day I die
Riding on a mirror reflection, collecting and toiling
Approving and oleaginous oceans, broken oil and water
Painted like the pinned skies, reds and blues are the reasons that I cannot go on
The thunder and lightning  tautological to Zeus, and the Greek hermaphrodites can take more
These virgins of blossoming breaths that burst like the fireballs of chasing the wind
Calling up and the thespians in the actor studios
And the remnants of stages, broken by the masked Venetian
Ceilings and reconnoitering the convict's dream
He lay in his bed like an insect that had learned to dream, but, learned to spread it's wing first
Breaking his boredom with some mirages and middle ages to read
Occult screams, "Eat cake!"
Pinkerton Jun 2019
If only we were leopard slugs,
we’d be an upside-down ballet, already
dangling from a string of our own mucous,
sensually embracing while wrapped
in each other’s gigantic blue *****.
You fertilizing me fertilizing you
as we spin like a disco ball
because this is where the party’s at.
And if you listen closely,
David Attenborough commentates
on the magic of our ***-
and woman, it would be ******* magic.
We’re hermaphrodites, I can dance this dance
with any leopard slug I see.
You should be flattered
I chose to get slimy with you.

Except we’re not leopard slugs.
Instead, there was a half-assed attempt at romance-
tonight, a bouquet on sale at the gas station-
and now I’m enduring bland small talk
over a meal I don’t want to pay for
that I pepper with lies to increase my chances
that you and I will get sticky in our own juices.
I envy the leopard slug.

We’ve only had the appetizer
but I think I should have just stayed home
and watched a documentary.
Mateuš Conrad May 2018
god, and what
    a miserable afternoon...
but then...
   something akin to
listening to skálmönd's
                    kvaðning
while reading
   roger lewis'
        review of nathan h
lents' human errors book...
     and spotting
my mother didn't see
   a banana until after
she was married
...
      came the laugh...
           school-boy giggle...
    it's like sunshine
and rain,
   get a ******* rainbow
while you're at it...
      no no...
i was thinking about
something comparable
to the ****...
   oysters,
    daffodils...
   didn't see any flowers
till i danced
with a ***** ballerina
into the sack-and-bay...
     but the spontaneity
of the giggle...
    considering
how the floral
comparison to
         female genitelia is...
   aren't flowers
       hermaphrodites?
**** me:
you can at least pretend
to save the fruit
from the ills of
         being curved...
pickled cucumbers,
    dwarves... gherkins...
i'm bemoaning
the fact that the slavs
    don't exactly have
their alphabet...
        nothing equivalent
to runes...
    it's like:
who gives a **** about
350,000 million
years, a big bang
    dinosaurs,
bad *** meteor:
   if i have this hangover
blank in phonetic encoding?
     it's almost like
pretending to miss
a blink
    that "supposedly"
extends into keeping
an arithmetic of an hour...
worth a giggle,
   mind you...
         and little else worthy
of noting.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2020
hiberna tandem!

perhaps 5 hidden drafts later -
   a little spectacle for public scrutiny is best...
or: what one does when
one hasn't read of the imagist movement
much...
             since the cantos do not count
as such i am no longer a young man who
will easily adore, easily love,
   not that lying i ever could, diligently,
in order to at least persuade myself as
                     doing - not so easily -
                        
              still... it's winter and in winter
i can demand anything of this tongue...
       once, in winter...
                    in winter, once...
                             that it is winter...
   a season of scents, a scented season -
                all that's cooked deserves to be
eaten...
   inedible first drafts too...
                       whatever it is, that's implied
with "food for thought"...
                     forbid - some god too -
                      that there should be thought
of food - the pauper's only thoughts
are of fattied brain: fatted on p'oh p-p-p'oh
and more oh-do-try...
      
the hungrier the more terrifying this
comfort of coffee and cigarette becomes -
it could last a day until the yapping
       of this gobshite stops!
                        my: 3rd person, i-not-i,
self-deprecating 'umour amour...

                  well... one does try... such sober verse
from time to time:
one can thus, accomplish so (quite enough) -
and perhaps... munching on much, so...

all that winter is... endless scents...
   no flowers in sight, no dizzying plethora of
fuckety-pollen-bulges...
                to the sevens winds the hermaphrodites...
children of hermes and aphrodite:
ol' muse ol' ****** of the goats and gods...

iterum: hiberna tandem!

— The End —