I interrupt this blog for a moment for some breaking news: Pickup Artists have started writing poetry.
And it’s glorious. By which I mean, of course, that it’s gloriously awful.
Yesterday, while poking around the internet in my usual manner, I ran across an amazing little discussion on MPUAForum.com, an online hangout for PUAs who have for some reason added an M to their usual acronym.
A PUA going by the name bob2 announced to his Comrades in Sarging that he was planning on starting a “a pickup poetry blog.” That is, a blog providing PUA wisdom to the Average Frustrated Chumps of the world in the form of little poems. As he explained:
In pickup, especially in natural game you need to really GET a few key ideas. Therefore poetry is the tool of choice. Whereas a post or an ebook “gestures” at ideas, poetry is tough and precise, it really gets the point across.
There was just one teeeeensy little roadblock with this plan: It would involve actually writing poems, and, as bob2 admitted plainly, he’s “no writer.”
Unwilling to let the fact that he can’t write get in the way of writing a blog, our hero asked the assembled masses for submissions.
And they delivered. They delivered some of the worst poems ever written by sentient beings.
“I love rhyming words to express feelings,” a fellow calling himself Pickup Truck announced happily. He celebrated this love of rhyme with a poem in which, er, nothing actually rhymed. These two stanzas will give you some idea of his intriguing sense of rhyme. And also what an insufferable ass he is.
I’ve been here a thousand times before and learnt it,
Her beauty is present, but her personality is transparent,
She may be hot but what if she’s also a bitch and unpleasant?
The challenge excites me, the prospect excites her,She knows tonight’s going to be different,
Her daily routine will not be the same, I stroll over,
Her heart races, she turns to jelly when I smile,
Place my hand on her shoulder and ask “hey, whats your name?”
In the first, Mr, Truck at least made vague gestures towards the notion of rhyme; the second abandoned rhyme altogether.
Also, “hey what’s your name?” What the hell kind of opener is that? Shouldn’t he be negging her a little bit, dropping in a “nice nails, are they real?” or “one of your boobs is definitely bigger than the other one” or “are you a model, like, a 1/32 scale model of a Krupp Sd.Kfz.121 Panzer II F tank?”
Actually, I’m not completely sure I understand negs myself.
A commenter called Ezo came a little bit closer to the goal of writing a poem that rhymes. But he seemed unaware that words that are spelled similarly do not always sound alike.
When you start getting the point of the Game.
Your life will not ever give you the same.
Tired of pondering words that she said.
When she just told you that youre not getting laid.
So close!
Dziah, perhaps noticing the troubles his comrades were having with rhyme and meter, went with free verse. Very free verse. Verse so free that it probably should have been repressed a little by the authorities.
I gazed at a rose,
Cast away into the eye.
Motional leaves move while still.This inhibited instant,
Reality impedes.
Trance just dismissed.The elegant red of the pedal‘s tips,
The saccharine essence.
Thorns now pierce my flesh.
Uh, pretty sure you meant “petals,” dude. Flowers have petals. Bikes have pedals. Petaluma is a city in California.
Those roses that dispute the most anguish,
Contain the most eccentric adventures.
These strange saga’s father the Magnificent.
If any of you can discern any possible meanings hiding in this word salad, let me know. I’m stumped.
Bob2 offered a couple of sample poems of his own. One even managed to work in the words “becometh” and “womanhood” — in the same line!
she becometh her womanhood
feels your calm
the easygoing King,
unapologetic, calm
Err, dude, it’s sort of cheating to rhyme “calm” with “calm,” given that they’re THE SAME WORD.
But the conclusion of his poem was so truly beautiful it brought a wettening to my pants.
she wettens, she laughs
her pupils dilate
she can hardly believe it
she’s getting ready to mate.for you are Zeus,
manhood incarnate
and she a common beauty
yours with which to masturbate.
Wait, what?
Look, fellas, I realize that most of your trips to the club end with you back at home alone, masturbating forlornly into the bathroom sink with the memory of some women you tried to hit on floating around in your head. But you’re not supposed to admit this out loud. It kind of ruins the PUA mystique.
EDIT: Removed a link to a video; I hadn’t realized that it had some awful stuff in it.
“Those roses that dispute the most anguish,
Contain the most eccentric adventures.
These strange saga’s father the Magnificent.”
I’m pretty sure he’s saying “flowers are agonizing, but choosing them reminds me of some wild times. And our poems are telling great things!” So if we read between the lines the poems are telling us about some wild times. Some of which have resulted in the PUA getting a little to picked-up and needing to buy flowers for the woman that he can’t get rid of?
I might be reading too much into this. I’m tired.
Wait – we don’t have sexbots yet, but we have poetry-writing robots*?
Those are (allegedly) written by *human beings?!* God’s little fish in trousers.
*To quote Morrissey, “Frankly, Mr. Shankly, I never knew you wrote such BLOODY AWFUL poetry.”
what rhymes with “fedora”?
Ooh, I have one.
Ah freddled gruntbuggly,
Thy micturations are to me,
As plurdled gabbleblotchits,
On a lurgid bee,
That mordiously hath blurted out,
Its earted jurtles,
Into a rancid festering confectious organ squealer.
Now the jurpling slayjid agrocrustles,
Are slurping hagrilly up the axlegrurts,
And living glupules frart and slipulate,
Like jowling meated liverslime,
Groop, I implore thee, my foonting turling dromes,
And hooptiously drangle me,
With crinkly bindlewurdles,
Or else I shall rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon,
See if I don’t.
“poetry is tough and precise”
“poetry is tough and precise”
Do you think this’ll be less amusing the third time?
“poetry is tough and precise”
Newp, still hilarious.
Oh no, I think you will find that the very worst poetry is this:
The dead swans lay in the stagnant pool.
They lay. They rotted. They turned
Around occasionally.
Bits of flesh dropped off them from
Time to time.
And sank into the pool’s mire.
They also smelt a great deal.
Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings was a poet who wrote the worst poetry in the universe. In fact, her poetry is still considered to be the worst in the Galaxy, closely followed by that of the Azgoths of Kria and the Vogons.
She lived at 37 Wasp Villas, Greenbridge, Essex, GB10 1LL.[2]
That hurts in the brain.
Wow. In a way, this poem IS effective – ’cause here it is: Everything you need to know about these people. Both their view of themselves, and their view of women – in four lines. They, the men are awesome and unique beyond this world, while women are lower, common things, only good for how they can please men.
Quoth the raven, “Neg her more”.
By Edgar Allan Pua
“for you are Zeus,
manhood incarnate
and she a common beauty
yours with which to masturbate.”
I think the important question here is wether or not Zeus got laid in Norway.
Also, well done, comparing yourself to a famous mythological rapist.
… I’m an awful poet, but my awfulness has been exceeded spectacularly. Great job, dudes.
I salute you with some slightly less awful poetry of my own:
Once upon a midday bright
I looked online and saw a sight!
A legion of poets of such sad disgrace
— I could not even turn my face! —
To look away from such sad rhymes,
For, alas, they were but crimes!
Indeed those that claimed to have a rhyme
Had less rhyme than shouts a mime!
The ones that indeed denied to rhyme
And said that free in verse they were, were not,
Or rather
So free in verse
That form they found in formlessness, choosing to keep all lines
so similar in length
so similar in feel
that although they were free, they were bound in their own sadness and
solitude the poems so foul
not even a denizen of Vogsphere
could tolerate them.
For despite the desires of their composers
Who, all for naught, are but poseurs
These poems hardly a pickup could make
Except as perhaps an emergency brake
Kinda reminds me of a blog I used to read by an English professor that used to get poetry from Stormfront’s message boards and grade it. Oh in case you were wondering, there’s poetry on Stormfront’s message boards too.
Also, the consequences with never be the same. Hey, look, I rhymed!
It’s rare that a PUAs will explicitly state that they view partnered sex with women as masturbation with a particularly good toy. Am I allowed to quote this at the next fella who disingenuously claims that PUA is all about “shy guys developing confidence”?
Oh sweet Celestia why did I read all these poems? I’m gonna to read much more enjoyable poems.
https://www.earlymoments.com/dr-seuss/favorite-dr-seuss-quotes/
Spindrift
“Also, well done, comparing yourself to a famous mythological rapist.”
And the one who married, had sex and raped his sister
twitch
You call that drek the written word
That’s absurd!
Saccharine essence?
Saccharine senescence, this PuA malarky eats grammar, lives
and innocence
You profess and grandstand
clap your clammy hands
talk about your clammy wands
(Frankly your words are pretty hammy, man)
Adventures might be magnificent
yet if every effort bent
towards your intent
of getting spent
requires such an investment
that’s not an argument, it doesn’t augment your lifestyle
it makes me question your life, revile
the little words that march in file
‘Cause you don’t beguile
“Becometh?”
That’s vile
Neither witty or versatile
Dilate, mate, masturbate?
Yeah well
prate, predate, overrate.
I’m so glad I’m not the only one who thought of the Vogon poetry. And Spindrift – LOL!
As for the bit about her being a ‘common beauty’ to ‘masturbate with’ – I think they’re saying that they’re gods and thus they can obvioulsy fuck her however they please, with no considerations to her pleasure. She’s merely a tool for them to essentially masturbate with – a warm, breathing sex toy.
“She may be hot but what if she’s also a bitch and unpleasant? ”
The tough questions.
Pretty sure that’s what’s been on Hamlet’s mind when he mumbled his far less eloquent “To be or not to be”.
contrapangloss
Much better than I or any pua could come up with.
They’re not alone! Here’s a poem from Wordsworth’s little know PUA phase:
I wandered lonely as a cock,
That tries his game through clubs and dens,
When all at once I saw a flock,
A host, of golden HB10s;
Upon the floor, beneath the strobes,
I oogled thence their fleshly globes
As sensual as the babes that thrive
And offer many saucy looks,
In many files on my hard drive,
And in my pile of dirty books
A dozen saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
And I beside them danced; but they
Ignored my peacock hat and hose,
A poet might as well but be gay,
For all the good ’twas done by those:
I tried to kino — tried to neg
Towards the end I tried to beg
But oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude
I like to touch —
[ remainder of manuscript is unreadable]
This is up there with James McIntyre in bad. You know the Victorian poet aka the Chaucer of Cheese. Example: Ode on the Mammoth Cheese.
We have seen the Queen of cheese,
Laying quietly at your ease,
Gently fanned by evening breeze —
Thy fair form no flies dare seize.
All gaily dressed soon you’ll go
To the great Provincial Show,
To be admired by many a beau
In the city of Toronto.
Cows numerous as a swarm of bees —
Or as the leaves upon the trees —
It did require to make thee please,
And stand unrivalled Queen of Cheese.
May you not receive a scar as
We have heard that Mr. Harris
Intends to send you off as far as
The great World’s show at Paris.
Of the youth — beware of these —
For some of them might rudely squeeze
And bite your cheek; then songs or glees
We could not sing o’ Queen of Cheese.
We’rt thou suspended from baloon,
You’d cast a shade, even at noon;
Folks would think it was the moon
About to fall and crush them soon.
I Just Sort Of Kept Writing Stanzas; A PUA Poem
I am a gentle le sir,
with the world at my call.
My pen can cause a stir
among feminazis, y’all.
The Feeeemale is a mystery
I have solved with wit and charm.
I have made such an enquiry
and escaped without (much) harm.
First there is the Neg, simple and pristine;
you pretend to give a compliment
but you’re just being mean.
At this point you’ll get i-o-i,
or perhaps just rejection.
She’ll look you up or leave you out;
but gents, please hide your erection.
Second is the kino play, a true PUA classic.
Touch the lady’s hair or elbow;
she’ll be beastly like the Jurassic.
At this point you may wish to “close,”
but have patience yet.
If your outfit’s not disposed
like some weird jester, you won’t be met.
Peacocking is the only art
a man must truly master.
Well, that and the bait-and-switch;
to fail is to employ disaster.
At this point you may be thinking:
“Is this really worth the hassle?
With what I spend on hats and drinking
I could purchase a small castle.”
But that’s just your beta-mind,
your id, your foolish will;
all doubts will be washed away
when you swallow the Red Pill.
You’ll enter a great new land
of eternal bio-truths,
where a man can be a man
and a rabbit, a sabretooth.
You’ll bend the world to your pleasure,
penetrate the mysteries of time.
Five fathoms your dick will measure,
once you wash off all your grime.
Sir Bodsworth, that was wonderful. Thank you.
Oh, this is all glorious. Sir Bodsworth, that was a splendid travesty. Amanda, somehow I had lived this long without having read that poem. My thanks for rectifying this lamentable state of affairs. I own a much-read copy of “The Stuffed Owl”, a compendium of the very best Bad Verse – that’s how much I enjoy deliciously bad* poetry.
*Leonard Pinth-Garnell voice.
Yeah, I think as former poet laurate of We Hunted The Mammoth I’m going to abdicate my post in favour of these new talents.