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.
“Gomorrah” also rhymes with fedora. Make of that what you will.
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on flowers and dinner and ev’ry trimming
And not get any poon, and start again at the beginning
And blame the whole thing on the ebil wimmens —
If you can get laid in Denmark, though you’re what’s rotten,
And never wipe below, or wash your greasy hair,
If every conquest is quickly over and quickly forgotten,
And none of them are females who burp, text, and swear —
If you can cold approach an 8 at Starbucks
And return with Kings – nor learn how to grammar
Though the rest of the world’s going cuckoo for cocoa cucks,
And falsely putting men in the slammer —
If you can fill an unforgiving minute
With memorized drivel from Heartiste’s chateau,
Yours is the nightclub and everything in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be an Alpha, my bro!
That disturbance in the force you felt from the Vogons as they realized they were now only wrote the 4th worst poetry in the universe.
Welp, I gotta hang my (not-trilby) hat now.
Everyone’s better at bad PUA poetry that I am.
Nth’ing everyone else in applauding all the glorious poetic mockery in this thread! I couldn’t read those PUA “poems” without picturing these pathetic wastes of space in Shakespearian attire or perhaps a fancy tophat, sipping tea and speaking in a British accent. You can tell they’re trying to do their best impressions of classy gentlemen, but don’t get that simply adding -eth to a word doesn’t make up for the content.
Those ignorant sluts call me reprehensible.
They say PUAs are indefensible.
Trying to sully my name
Cuz they secretly love my game.
Better turn it up another decibel.
@fromafar2013
Nice find on that Fedora the explorer picture!
Also, awesome work on all those poems, mammotheers.
@Falconer – Pish posh! Your take on William Carlos Williams was delightful.
This thread wouldn’t be complete with Ross Jeffries’ NLP seduction masterpiece, “Fascination”:
Have you ever been fascinated
by someone whose words just seemed to
PENETRATE you?
You FIND YOURSELF LOOKING
and you can’t look away
and the more that you try
the more that GAZE STAYS
RIVETED HERE
where you want it to be
cause you know that there’s something
you just have to see
As you LISTEN SO CLOSE
and you START TO WONDER
what would it feel like
to be FALLING UNDER
A spell, mm…so magic
being spun by the sound
of a voice whose rich warmth
was spreading on down.
Have you ever experienced
INSTANTANEOUS CONNECTION?
To the point where your thoughts moved in
mmm….
Just one direction?
People sometimes ask,
“Please…just a kiss!”
Funny how you find yourself
WISHING THE SAME WISH
Your mine is amazing
when you really
LET IT GO
As you FIND YOURSELF PICTURING
mmm…you know?
As the warmth of that voice
takes on a glow
SPREADING and PULSATING
where you want it to go
I will tell you all you desire…
ME…I know.
You step out of what was
Invited, slipped inside
Feels like warm rain
Between your sighs
And it’s not important
that you find
every inhibition
is left far behind.
As you recall how it feels
To be SO IN LOVE
And you SEE THAT IMAGE of us
(point to it) Up above
You see at last
who you’ve finally found
what you’ve looked for
and longed for
has finally COME round.
@Buttercup:
That’s like a really creepy Dr. Seuss.
I’m imagining most of it done in a way that he thinks is subtle but everyone’s totally aware of.
And the ‘mmm’ sounds being really exaggerated.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember flared up as I opened up the door.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”
Merely this and nothing more.
Soon again I heard a tapping, heard a somewhat sterner rapping,
That forced by thoughts from fapping as I stood beside the door,
Ah, the memories overtook me, when my dear Lenore forsook me
As she told me “I shall brook thee and thy games and lies no more!”
The cold of winter took me back to when she cried “no more!”
This I thought, and nothing more.
Now the tapping turned to pounding, rousing me as I came rounding
From the threshold to the sounding reverberating through the floor.
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.
Merely ’twas a stately Raven from the night’s Plutonian shore.
Merely this and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“You’re a raven!” I exclaimed, “Tell me what is it you’re named!”
And the Raven, looking pained, froze and stared up from the floor.
It cocked it’s head in shock and simply stared up from the floor,
Before it uttered “The hell was that? Bloody yes I’m a raven, aren’t you poets supposed to be a bit more eloquent or something?
Drawing back and feeling chastened, I reclaimed my nerve and hastened
To explain as the bird stationed itself upon my chamber door.
“I’m a PUA, not a poet!” Quoth the raven “Don’t I know it!
Now before I go and blow it, let me see what lies in store
For your torture, let me read your past and see what lies in store.”
Paused the raven, “Oh, oh god no. Fuck no, nope! Nope nope nope! Nope, I’m done. I’m out. What the hell, dude? I deal with, like, vague misery and existential crises, not… this… What kind of monster are you?”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil! —
A woman sent you surely, to accost me at my door!
Pickup Artistry is nature! Girls, the prey, and men the chaser!
Why not learn to be a player and get laid tons, I implore!
Who has sent you, foul raven! Was it that cruel bitch, Lenore?
Quoth the Raven, “…”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil! —
Tell me truly, I beseech thee, was it that cruel bitch Lenore?
‘Cause she was pretty hot, you see, and if she will come back to me,
I’ll maybe take her, MAYBE! If she prostrates herself upon my floor.”
Quoth the raven, “You’re sick.”
“What?” I shouted, “I’m not sick, or desperate to wet my stick,
I’ve got a load of women I’ll be banging forever more.
Just, you know, if she is desperate for my manhood and seeks respite
From the longing I have gaslit in her loins, that filthy whore,
I’ll accept her. Please, she wants, me right? Just tell me, I implore!
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore. You tosser.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “You know what? Fine, I will. I could stick around and torment you and your sudden, amazing increase in poetic skills, but you know what? You aren’t worth it. Go stew in your own desperate assholery. I’m out!”
Now here I am, still sitting, by the dying embers spitting
Sorry flames that seem so fitting of the burdens that I bore.
No more sounds of gentle rapping, just my fingers that are tapping
In frustration at that wretch that taunted me with my Lenore!
Frustrated, for the hundredth time, I phone my love, Lenore!
I will give up — nevermore!
Most people who write poetry do it because they love poetry. Most people who play video games love video games. These idiots fail at both poetry and games because they love nothing, when they play a game or read a book they don’t want to be challenged or made to think. They want to have fun in a game that’ll shut down mental thinking. Every waking moment in their lives is self inflicted pain and they refuse to do anything about it or try to improve.
Once upon a time, I was young, naive, and that’s all you need to know here. The poem needs an ending, but like my relationship, it never really ended; it just drifted to the background where it doesn’t hurt so much anymore.
Please enjoy my sub-par poetry.
________________________________
Untitled
Attending school across the country, a long-distance boyfriend cheated on me.
The day he confessed, he asked, “Do I get brownie points for my honesty?
I want a woman on each coast. I get lonely, and right now, I’m a hot commodity.
Be my summer girl, waiting like a sullen maiden, ever watching the sea.”
I was a human footstool that year, his legs usually draped across my own.
He spoke openly about her: About sex, love, and other girls he wanted to bone.
While visiting me, she called him in a rage: “I’ll piss you out like a kidney stone!
Fuck your games! Fuck your whore!” In an instant, his perfect scenario was blown.
Would he blame himself for the broken hearts or the tactics used to deceive?
No. After all, wasn’t it the good book that said our problems were the fault of Eve?
Was there room in this small world for the sexual goals he wanted to achieve?
Yes! But he would have to strip, take the red pill, become a douchebag Neo and believe.
He recited the gospel of Max, Strauss, and Mystery, spitting their malice as fact:
“You’re a shitty lock, and I, a master key; pull up your shirt, that’s how sluts act.
You women make intellectual whores out of men, but I see your plan of attack;
Put me on the friendship ladder? Never again! If I want her, she’ll end up on her back.”
@th1stle
Wow. I don’t think that was sub-par at all. I could totally picture that being a spoken word piece. Very moving (and I think we all have a hurtful douchebag tale to tell, so I’m sorry)!
This seems like the right place to add the most memorable short poem I’ve ever read. It’s by Margaret Atwood, and I don’t remember the title, but the poem is:
it’s more visual and impactful than anything that the PUAs managed to put together. I first read it at least 15 years ago and I haven’t forgotten it to date.
@Kate: That is chilling! I felt like “awww” after the first 2 lines, but at the end I was like “ouch! Ohhhh…wow.”
“I will give up — nevermore!!”
…And I won’t read that girly Thor.
With a moments reflection, you’ll have to thank
me for pointing out its a 1/72 nd scale tank.
@fruitloopsie I am, don’t worry – I just have a cold and way too much work to finish. This thread is providing a pretty great distraction so far 🙂
I can’t quite live up to all the amazing parodies in this post so here’s a quick limerick:
There once was a young PUA
who studied techniques every day,
of negging and game,
and maintaining his frame,
but the girls still said “Nah, go away.”
what rhymes with “fedora”?
angora
PUAS all think they’re the Man From Nantucket.
(Rhymes with “bucket” and “upchuck it”, in their case…at least, that’s my reaction whenever I read the vile things they spout)
I could not stop laughing at this thread! Mammotheers are the best commenters EVER!
And I would like to agree with Kate about that Margaret Atwood poem–I never forgot it, and always had my students read it because poetry should sometimes jar you with its unexpectedness
http://40.media.tumblr.com/a6d66a62978a0dedf7a4411cd7b233e2/tumblr_njxb3bZiBs1sg4d2co1_r1_500.png
The other Atwood poem that keeps popping to mind for this thread is “Siren Song”. I kinda think that they believe all women are identical to the siren, but that women only speak to men who aren’t the PUAs and NiceGuys(tm), and so those guys just get more and more angry at the siren that she’d summon all those useless sailors but not have time for them… and they storm off stomping their feet… (but mostly this is an excuse to share more Atwood)
Sonnet 1 (is the loneliest number): A PUA Saga
With Game in mind and drink in hand I gaze.
My target twines ’bout ‘pon the dancehall floor.
She knows not yet what passions she does raise
(nor other bits that, frankly, matter more).
With Alpha strut I sidle up to her
and heart aflutter stroke her outer thigh
to show disinterest will not me deter.
She stiffens quickly, as, indeed, do I.
“Hands off, you creep,” she shouts and glares at me.
Armed with deflections I rehearsed all day,
“An accident!” I claim, but fail to see
the burly bouncer start to move my way.
My ego (and arm) bruised I head for home,
retreating to my online echo dome.
Manosphere poetry example:
Roses are red,
violets are blue,
wiping my own ass is too much trouble
just for sleeping with you!
And again I set to fuming at that raven who is dooming
Any chance at decent human interaction anymore.
Since I lack all introspection and engage in wild projection,
It embodies my rejections, there atop my chamber door.
At least the bird of my self-loathing did not touch my sweet fedor’
Which shall be lifted, m’lady, nevermore!
After My Last Duchess, by Robert Browning:
That’s my last conquest’s lipstick by the sink,
As if she’d left it recently, I think
It is a master stroke, endorsed by Roosh,
To reinforce my status as a douche
Will it please you listen to these schemes
to stock a shag-pad of every woman’s dreams?
For never read strangers like you the subtle neg
in keeping six phone chargers by the bed
…
I feel like this has so much promise but couplets of pentameter are hard, and I’m lazy. The speaker in this and Porphyria’s Lover have the same insecure misogynist entitlement issues and heavy denial as most PUAs anyway, this shit ought to practically write itself.
Lemme go rummage through my anthology for something better…