Tuesday, May 17, 2005

On Spleens

So today we were learning about essays. One of the exercises was to come up with topics that you have no idea about, and explain them. In essence, bullshit your way through the essay. We were supposed to focus on a part of our body, so I chose the spleen. Enjoy.

On Spleens
Man, that crazy ol' spleen. He really gets the short end of the stick when it comes to the popularity of internal organs. The spleen enjoys quite a rep. After the heart, spleeny is probably the most oft cited organ. However, unlike his amorous cousin, the spleen is always portrayed in a negative light. Just how did this start? What's with all the spleen hate? Just what does a spleen do, anyway? All this, and more, awaits.

To begin, we must trek back to Ancient Times. The exact location has been lost for ages, but we know it was somewhere in that whole Europe/Asia region of the world. It was probably those limey Brits, actually. When angered, and seeking a way to express one's rage, people would launch into drunken tirades at the local pub, espousing their ire at any topic whatsoever, from politics to Fiefdom Idol. This was referred to as "venting one's spleen." Why was this specific turn of phrase coined? Why not "venting one's pancreas"? or "airing out one's gall bladder"? For the answer, we turn to the primitive science field of the time.

You see, after a major battle, there would be hordes of dead bodies all over the place. Lying in the sun like that, the bodies would get all bloated as the gases inside built up, until they would explode, leaving the ground strewn with organs and viscera. It was quite messy, and extremely unhygenic. To deter this, the doctors would wander the battlefield, looking at bodies for signs of puffiness. They would then stab the body in the abdomen, allowing the noxious humors a means of escape. It was obviously known the the reason for the bloating was that dread spirits were taking up residence in the body. Where else would these vile demons go but the spleen? Thus, the term "venting the spleen" was born. Their scientific principles were not entirely sound.

Over time, "venting the spleen" began to be associated merely with people being angry, and voicing their opinions about social situations. The most current form of this being the blog.

Sunday, May 15, 2005

I Hate Sestinas

The Sestina is another specific form of poetry. 39 lines, 6 sets of 6 and then a 3 line ending. You have to keep the end words the same, but they alternate lines. And you can't rhyme. It's really freaking lame, and I'm not a big fan, as you could probably gather from the title.

So we're supposed to write a sestina,
It is strict in adherence to form.
Contrary to my nature, I can't even rhyme.
And what good is a poem without that?
Six lines of six, with a final three,
Thirty nine lines is a lot to fill.

Back along route 55 is a landfill
There's a whale there, would he like a sestina?
In verse two, this is line number three.
To me, this doesn't breathe. A dead, lifeless form.
For a metaphor, how was that?
Have I mentioned how hard it is not to rhyme?

This poem has no reason or rhyme,
Just words that do nothing but fill.
Writer's block, can you believe that?
To be honest, I blame the sestina.
Stick to they rules, I cannot shape its form.
This here is the end of the stanza called three.

This is verse four, it comes after three,
I can be numeric, but nary a rhyme.
The other day I had to fill out a form,
And it was a form that I had to fill.
Repetition is good in a sestina.
I think I've picked up on that.

Now how will I ever top that?
I've no more clever uses for three.
Here's another line with sestina.
I'd really like to know why we can't rhyme,
Since, to me, that's a lame requirement to fill.
The Wonder Twins could change by shouting "Form!"

No one will get that reference to form.
The SuperFriends? Anyone remember that?
Reese's cups have delicious peanut butter fill.
Did you know they come in packs of three?
Once again, I lament the lack of rhyme.
Bringing to a close, this pitiful sestina.

I hate the sestina, and its horrible form.
I like to rhyme, I've definitely said that.
Thirteen times three, is the lines I did fill.

Ode To A Stick Figure

This is one I had written in high school, but used for this class since I like it.

As I enter the room, the doubt sets in,
My heartbeat quickens, I get clammy skin.
Because, I discovered, I forgot about my exam,
And my mind is closed up, tight like a clam.

I look at the test, it is multiple choice.
Dial down the center? Or listen to my inner voice?
I go with my instincts, and I’m lead through the fog,
For at the top of the page, helping, are DD and Dog.

Oh those comical characters, with their rapier wit,
Their style, to use cunning guile, so you’ll smile bit.
They are masters of jokes, although they are lame,
They sour good taste, and humor they maim.

But is that not the point? To make people groan?
To provide funny fodder so bad, they only can moan?
Though the jokes are all flops, this poem is tops, it just never stops,
It goes from line to line like a fast rabbit that hops.

Let’s toss in a one-liner, just to add flavor,
What’s a botanist’s fave candy? Why, a leaf-saver!
And on that final note, I must leave you, my friend,
For this poem, you see, has come to an end.

Video Games, A Pantoum

This one is a pantoum, which is a specfic style of poetry that has a lot of repetition of lines in it. I think the structure is kinda lame, but we had to do it.

Hearken back to the days of yore,
Of old school Nintendo and the Atari.
Remember the thrill of beating a high score?
Like the joy of seeing monkeys at Six Flags Safari.

Old school Nintendo, and the Atari,
Go even further, all the way back to Pong.
Just like the joy of seeing monkeys at Six Flags Safari,
Pumping quarters into an arcade machine all the day long.

Go even further, all the way back to Pong,
How simplistic compared to the games of today.
Pumping quarters into an arcade machine all the day long,
Is now but a distant memory, much to my dismay.

How simplistic compared to the games of today,
The glory days of the 8-bit, and even 16,
Are now but a distant memory, much to my dismay.
Yet my heart leaps at the thought of the next gen console scene.

The glory days of the 8-bit, and even 16,
Proved a firm foundation, upon which to build.
My heart leaps at the thought of the next gen console scene,
A developer’s playground, for now they’re quite skilled.

There is a firm foundation, upon which to build.
Thrills come from the playing now, not just the score.
The developers have done well, they’ve used all their skills,
No longer must we hearken back to the days of yore.

Death's Embrace

Pain, anguish, despair
All joy that once existed is gone
My soul is twisted in torment
Every waking moment is agony
Slumber produces not escape, but feverish night terrors
Terminating my essence is the only recourse

Clutching My Anguish

Life holds no meaning
I exist as a mere shade of myself
Wandering this mortal coil
Sentenced to life, but never to feel
Never to feel, except for the pain
Suffering torment is all I know

Bastion of Torment

The only time I even get a slight glimmer of feeling
The darkness embraces me like a cloak
Bringing meager comfort to my suffering
All too soon the night is gone, the torture of my existence returns
At least I don't live in Iceland


There was a brief period where I pretended to be a goth kid. So the next few poems are me being a whiny, gothic bitch.

All around me is a whirling torrent
I succumb to the chaotic maelstrom
Light is but a myth
Forevermore shall I dwell in the abyss

The Lunch Trucks

My professor called this one "good, classic doggerel!"

School is quite boring, the classes are long,
And yet I have reason to break into song.
Awaiting after class, that delectable fare,
Those wonderful lunch trucks! Aromas wafting through the air.

"Chicken cheesesteak, plain." I tell the good vendor,
Proper sustenence after a day-long class bender.
Add an orange Gatorade, the total comes to "5 dolla,"
A price most, fair, and to that I say "Holla!"

My order never changes, in that I'm quite plain.
Get something different? Why sir, that's insane!
I know what I like, and I like what I know,
Chicken cheesesteaks are freaking delicious, yo.

Another big favorite, or others, not mine,
"Bacon, egg, and cheese" a dish most divine.
I'm sure it tastes great, that is no riddle,
But I prefer my bacon, egg, and cheese on a McDonald's McGriddle.

Wednesday, May 04, 2005


And here's the one I did for Monday.

Today is Monday,
The start of the week.
The end's far away,
Yet tonight has a peak.

At 9 of the clock
I flip over to FOX
This comes as no shock,
But 24 really rocks!

Have you seen this show?
It is brilliance distilled.
Lots of action, you know,
Plus lots of people get killed.

My hero, Jack Bauer,
Played by Sutherland, Kiefer,
Saves the day every hour
And he doesn't smoke reefer.

It' s done in Real Time,
That's the show's main appeal.
One time Jack shot a mime,
Just to see how it'd feel.

Ok, that was a lie,
A fabrication by me.
The mime was a spy
And Jack just shot his knee.


The overall assignment for the class is to write 15 poems and 10 pages of prose. Of the 15 poems, 8 have to be the same type. I decided to do a ballad based on each day of the week, and then I'll come up with one more to get in my 8. Here's Tuesday.

Today is Tuesday,
Oh glorious news!
Now get out of my way,
Or I'll give you a bruise.

I hop in my car,
And I drive down the road.
My destination's not far,
Unless you're a toad.

The bright yellow sign,
I espy with my eyes.
What soon shall be mine,
I'll reveal the surprise.

Oh music and movies!
CDs, DVDs!
Best Buy is quite groovy,
new releases for me!

My paycheck now spent,
My addiction now fed.
But what about my rent?
Ah! Tell the landlord I'm dead!

I now sink into bliss,
New purchases galore.
Best buy gets blown a kiss,
Oh how I love that store!

Tuesday, May 03, 2005


This was the main exercise for class today. Supposed to be a dialogue about something you did but weren't supposed to/wanted to do but weren't supposed to/something along those lines.

The decision was mine to make, and mine alone. Should I listen to the countless aeons of human knowledge that had come before me? Or do I dare to defy convention, and t hus make myself a hero for the ages? Good Me and Evil Me decide to chime in from their vantage points on my shoulders.

EM: Dude, it's going to be totally freaking sweet!
GM: Nay, Sean. You know what dangers accompany this feat.
EM: Oh come on! Don't let this pussy talk you out of it!
GM: Will you sacrifice your health and well being for but a few moments of fleeting fame?
EM: Look, I'll give you a dollar.
GM: Do not be tempted by earthly fortunes.
EM: Ok, fine. 5 bucks.
GM: Stay strong Sean! Do not be led astr- wait, did you say 5 bucks?
EM: Yup. I've got my buddy Abe Lincoln right here, pal.
GM: Oh, well then. 5 bucks is 5 bucks. I say go for it man.
EM: Holla!

With a barest hint of trepidation, I reach before me, selecting the two components of the most dreaded of elixirs. A small tearing of a bag. The hiss of decompressing air. In one deft manuever, I empty the contents of the pouch into the canister. Knowing my window of opportunity is brief, I quickly raise the brew to my lips, chugging as fast as my throat will aloow. I finish, slamming the can down onto the table. The crowd of onlookers waits with bated breath. Thumping sounds are heard as those with weaker constitutions faint dead away. Will I survive this horrific situation? It's been said that many a lesser man has succumbed t just such a concoction as mine, shuffling off this mortal coil. Tick tock, tick tock. 30 seconds, a minute. A sound is heard from the crowd. A single clap. Slowly, it builds up, gaining in speed and volume, until it reaches a deafening crescendo. A man rushes up to me, shaking my hand enthusiastically. "Wow! That was amazing! Pop Rocks and Coke! I didn't think you'd make it, man!" I merely shrug my shoulders, a modest smile crossing over my face. "Well, I am awesome, you know."

An Ode to Pen and Paper

We had about 15 minutes left in class today, and our teacher told us to write an ode to our pen and paper.

Oh marvelous pen! You have functions galore!
Be it writing, or drawing, or twirling and more.
But let's not forget paper, your tried and true friend,
For without him, your usefulness comes to an end.

Oh paper and pen, such a duo dynamic!
Without both of you, I surely would panic.
My pen stays in my pocket, ever ready for use,
Sticky notes in my wallet, their color chartreuse.

Click clack goes your voice, and you're ready to write,
Words of black ink, upon paper that's white.
Clack click, the reverse, you retreat to your home,
for the writing's now done, that's the end of this tome.

I like to write

Ok, so I like to write. Whew, that's out of the way. I feel much better now. I like reading too, gosh! Anyway, this term in school, I took a creative writing class. We've been writing things in class, and also we have writing assignments and such. Rather that just keep these in my notebook, and not wanting to clutter up my LiveJournal with them, I decided to create a blog for them. Quick, easy, in and out postings of whatever I write, the blog style seems to fit better than they would in my LiveJournal. So yeah. Yay writing.

I must also note that I am a shameless, shameless whore. I will pimp the hell out of my things, such as my comic, Hutch University.