"Fuck it" is the most powerful and subsequently destructive phrase in the English language, allowing one to ignore consequence in favor of pure action, with the tactic acceptance that you've likely released forces far beyond your control.
For a phrase with so much destructive potential, it's interesting to note that the root of the phrase goes back to sex, the act of creation, and even possibly love. Sex is the effort to produce a child, a force which will, whether you like it or not, grow beyond your control.
"Kill it" doesn't have the oomph. Why not, when it essentially speaks to the same destructive dynamic and disregard of consequence?
Because "kill it" invokes death, which is to put to rest. "Fuck it" invokes life, which is to spark chaos.
@Arotrios One of my students once gave up on a physics lab report by writing “Nuke this” on his aborted data-analysis section. It was almost as effective.
A long time ago, in a Portland far far away, there was a ritual the wild poets used to practice at Roxy's after midnight beneath the neon Jesus. It was dubbed #TagTeamPoetry.
The rules are simple, and resemble a rap battle. The first poet writes a verse (or a couple, depending on where the muse takes them). Then the next poet continues the work while the first drinks and smokes - taking the theme of the last line as inspiration for their addition. The second poet continues writing until they're thirsty or stuck, and passes it back to the first poet. This continues until they either run out of inspiration, intoxicants, energy, or both agree that the poem is complete. Last verse wins.
If you have more than two poets, teams of three or more are permitted, but be aware that this is a volatile sport that often results in brawls of extremely dangerous lyricism the more poets are involved.
There are no restrictions on style - you can respond to a novel's worth of rhyming iambic pentameter with a haiku if it fits. Duels are more than permitted within the context of the poetry, and often produce some of the best results.
Now I'm aware that most on the Fediverse are suspicious of poetry, and rightfully so. You never know when a strange line of verse will make you laugh, or cry, or question your existence - so I'll be pleasantly surprised if I find any participants this evening.
That being said, there's a huge potential on the platforms here to have the most massive #TagTeamPoetry battle of history, and to add hyperlinks and music and videos and all sorts of whatever crazy bells and whistles you want. Plus, it's #ThirstyThursday and the Guinness just doesn't taste right without a bit of spice, so I'm gonna take the risk of shitposting into the void and kick this one off. Free boosts and upvotes to those who dare to reply in kind...
Round one
Staring at the sun
because
The song of a holy pug Slipped inside the house
Setting eggs of inspiration a flower
A bower of Bedouins
surfing a timewave
as it crashed down into now
And how does the muse find you today?
Grumpy or frumpy or on the A train?
Are you in India? Egypt? Saskatchewan? France?
Do you wear lipstick? A mustache? Blue underpants?
Who the hell is out there that's got a lyrical soul?
There's no wealth for a miser who hoards the Fool's gold
So you may as well spill it and tell the untold
I don't care if you're shady, I don't care if you're slim
I don't care if you stutter your green M&Ms
I dare you to open your mouth and let the world in
'cause the silence of a poet's heart is a mortal sin
"Besides, if you don't, I win!"
squawked the crow, with a most beaky grin...
It was Wednesday when you posted, you drunken old bat
And Roxy's serves coffee to the gutterpunk rats
There's holes in your story, and your memory sings flat
Think maybe its time to stop hitting the flask?
As for me, I come from the trees
Oaks and redwoods and blackberry leaves
My heart sprouting mushrooms and bumblebees
Casting sunflower seeds
to the titmice and the chickadees
Sculpting the mist of the ocean breeze
into impossible possibilities
With songs all wrong and upside down
For I was hiding from Hekate in a crossroad town
Till a fae cat cast their myrhh all around
Now she's telling me she's up to get down
And I'd be a Fool to ignore the sound
of magick unbound
So here you go
you drunken old crow
Let the lyrics flow
Like a leopard across the snow
Oh....my... God.
Becky, look at her butt,uh! it's so big.
She looks like one of those rap guy's girlfriends.
But, uh, y'know,
Who understands those rap guys?
They only talk to her because she looks like a total prostitute, okay.
I mean, her butt! It is just so.. Big.
I cannot believe it is just so.. Round.
It is, like, out there. I mean, gross.
Look! She has just so... Black!
I like big butts an' I can not lie.
You otha brothas can't deny.
That when a girl walks in wit' a itty bitty waist an'
A round thing in yo' face. You get SPRUNG.
Want to pull up tough, cuz you notice that butt was STUFFED.
Deep in the jeans she has wearin'.
I am hooked an' I cannot stop starin'.
Oh baby, I want to get wit' ya,
An' take yo' picta.
My homeboys tried to warn me.
But that butt you got makes me so horny.
Ooh, rumpled smooth skin.
You say you want to Get in ma Benz?
Well, use me, use me,
Cuz you aint that average groupy.
I seen her dancin',
To Hell wit' romancin'.
She has sweat. Wet.
Got it goin' like a Turbo 'Vette.
I am tired o' magazines
Sayin' flat butts are the thing.
Take the average black man & ask him that.
She have got to pack much back.
So fella's (YEAH), fella's (YEAH),
Does your girlfrien' got the butt? (HELL, YEAH)
So tell em to shake it (SHAKE IT),
Shake it (SHAKE IT)
Shake that healthy butt.
Baby got back.
(L.A. back with a Oakland booty.)
Baby got back.
(L.A. back with a Oakland booty.)
(L.A. back with a Oakland booty.)
I like em round & big,
An' when I am throwin' a gig,
I jus' can't help maself,
I am actin' like an animal.
Now here is ma scandal,
I want to get ya home an' UH,
Double up, uh, uh.
I ain' talkin' about Playboy,
'Cause silicone parts are made for toys.
I wan' em real thick an' juicy.
So fin' that juicy double.
Mix Alot's in trouble,
Beggin' for a piece o' that bubble.
So I am lookin' at rock videos.
Watchin' these bimbos
Walkin' like hoes.
You can have them bimbos.
I will keep my women like Flo Jo.
A word to tha thick soul sistas,
I want to get wit' ya.
I won' cuss, o' hit ya.
But I've got to be straight
When I say I want to...
Til' the break o' dawn,
Baby, got it goin' on,
A lot o' pimps won't like this song,
Cause them punks like to hit it an' quit it,
An' I would ratha stay an' play,
Cuz I am long, & I am strong,
An' I am down to get the friction on.
So, ladies (YEAH) ladies (YEAH),
Do you want to roll ma Mercedes? (YEAH)
Then turn aroun', stick it out,
Even white boys got ta shout.
Baby got back.
Baby got back!
Yea baby.
When it comes to females,
Cosmo aint got nuthin' to do with ma selection.
36-24-36.
Only is she has 5' 3".
So yo girlfriend drives a Honda,
Playin' workout tapes by Fonda,
But Fonda aint got a motor in the back o' her Honda.
My anaconda don't want want none,
Unless you got buns, hun.
You can do side bends or sit-ups,
But please don' lose that butt.
Some brothas want to play that hard role,
And tell ya that butt ain' gol',
So they toss it, an' leave it,
An' I pull up quick to retrive it.
So Cosmo says yo' fat,
Well, I ain' down wit' that.
'Cause yo waist is small an' you are curves are kickin',
An' I am thinkin' about stickin'.
To the beanpole dames in the magazines.
You aint it Miss Thang.
Gimme a sista, can't resist ha,
Red beans an' rice didn' miss ha.
Some knucklehead tried to diss.
Cuz his girls are on ma lis',
He had game but he chose to hit 'em,
An' I pull up quick to get wit' 'em.
So ladies if tha butt is round,
An' you want to XXX slow down,
Call 1-900-MIX-ALOT,
An kick them nasty thought',
Baby got back.
Baby got back.
@Arotrios Honestly, I was so confused at first about the wall of text and thought you were a spammer, until I realized it's that song and everything made sense...
I'm always amused by profiles that state their opinions are their own. I mean, isn't that generally assumed? I'd find it more noteworthy if the opinions on your profile weren't your own.
A million faces go flickering by
15 seconds of fame fired into the eyes
A cascade of shimmering fireflies
60 frames per second of electric lies
And fantasies, and science
singing the seances of threat
The truth hangs loose as she tightens the noose
that loops around our necks
Can you slip the Not tonight?
When there's no hope left?
Can you bear the spark through the dark
and the weight of airless breath?
The new moon waxes gibbous,
the harvest has come to bear
do you sink your seed into the mud
or toss your ashes in the air?
Do you second guess your frame of thought?
collapse the crackling cascade
the fame is flame, a promise of the pain
of a million hearts, all lonely and afraid