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    I am well versed in the art of coin arrangement. Some know this shape as a flower, others as the clock from The Tweenies. To me it represents credit crunch in the time of the presidential elections. (Two minutes.)

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    :yy:
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    Artistically I swipe my pen
    across the paper,
    as does a fencer attack
    with his rapier,
    Words are there for the
    sounds they create,
    Now you, anti-poet,
    reciprocate.
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    What a lovely thread.
    I think I will contribute
    Some of my haikus.

    When you read haikus
    You have to use your fingers
    To count syllables.

    Haikus are quite cool.
    They're short so they don't take long.
    I just can't do them right.

    Well, what did you think?
    Do tell me if you liked them.
    If you didn't, don't.

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    http://www.thestudentroom.co.uk/showthread.php?t=703190
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    Can I join your society? I have some poetry to share. When my English teacher asked the class to come in with a sonnet, most came in with a deep and emotional piece....

    Eleven hours, fifteen minutes to go,
    Until in English lesson I will be.
    Sonnets are difficult to write, you know,
    Especially for someone as bad as me.
    Fourteen lines, ten syllables to prepare,
    Much more difficult than you would think
    It would be with all the words out there,
    But I can't seem to find the missing link
    Between one line and the next. They make no sense.
    But I need to write something, and quickly too.
    I could try to put up some false pretence
    Of someone who knows what to write, what to do.
    Ah well, its over now, its almost done.
    Anymore words to say? Well, I have none.

    I think that fact it was written on the toilet at half past 7 adds to is provenance.
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    My current attempt at high culture is in my signature (the Erdos link).
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    I think one day my name will be illuminated by neon lights. One day soon.
    I'm two straight fingers up to counterculture which is in turn two fingers up to the masses. I don't belong to any class but the cultural overclass.
    And when my written efforts hit the shelf it will be like a linguistic atom bomb.
    I think I am a diamond in the rough; a coruscating gem in the bland social coalface.


    Anticipating the publication of my debut novel We Could Run So Far, here is my article on the trials and tribulations of being a struggling artist. For the sake of future literature, I implore you to ensure it makes the printing press of your magazine.

    The one and lonely, Jonathan Doherty


    Article:


    What is recognition? I don't want to sound like a wannabe Rene Richard here, but let me type lyrical 'til my fingers bleed. I think that dead artists are those who are not quite famous yet. That is recognition. YOU are only ANOTHER purveyor of bedsit beat until a publisher's hand comes out of the smokescreen clouds of rejection like a God's and drags you willingly to the echelons, through the never-collapsing stratas of society, to the very celestial pinnacle of fame.
    The landscape is a mass and mess of tortured averages anyway; those worrying about their fricking mortgages and whether they can splurge on gas for their ravenous monster truck so that they can cruise around their toytown somewhere. These guys don't know what it's like to sweat on a publisher's cheque so that the rent ( my landlord's Jewish; he has ten houses and three kids, or is it vice-versa? Anyway, nice guy, digs Ginsberg) can be paid on the six by six brick cell of an apartment in a nonescript south-of-the river suburb.
    To be a tortured genius, though, now that is something. I have always said that a certain woman lends to my genius. She lends to my madness also. That is one inspiration. Rimbaud was a tortured genius. He was FOUR years younger than me, and I am a kid (21) and I just go: "Man, where's the time gone?" The tortured genii must fit Malcolm Gladwell's 'outlier' criteria.They are genii after all, but some are tortured. That is their art. They want a heaving bookshelf and a Manhattan loft. They want a residence in a downtown veggie cafe. Not all of them get that.
    Now what do I want? What do I know? You might think: "Gosh, this kid knows his ****, he references like a ***** to the who's who of writers, beats etc etc. He seems to know Bohemia like his gilfriend's body. But, dudes, I don't. I am one of many, a many that are a few out of greater, pop-music and soap opera obsessed society. I am quintessentially English, northern, Mancunian and different.
    I am a tortured genius, clearly. I wouldn't write with such fluidity and lucidity on it. It's not that my musical learning curve took The Smiths and Coldplay gently in its stride; nor is it that Huysman is my literary hero, but I am a dead, and idle writer waiting for fame.
    It's like this: I would be rolling with Basquiat, Kerouac and Wojnanrowicz if these guys were alive, cos they were young, artsy and made it.
    I hope I will. The flame of hope for us aspiring and perspiring; (us, those who sweat every drop of last nights casual screw or Jack or Coke binge out just to move closer to 'making it') is a fire burning so fierce that when this flame of hope goes out so does the light of life. For us, to make it is an Existential motor. It is the stony path to all we will ever be.
    I could end up a tortured average but I doubt it. I walk around with a Velvet Underground 'Warhol' tee cos I know one must be a work of art or wear one and I am both.
    And this could be propaganda - I mean, I could have made it and be writing this from my Islington loft, but you can doubt that. I want to, I want recognition. It is the one goal. I want to become richly famous and therefore, inextricably, famously rich as a result.
    Yesterday, an old goat in the queue at the stationers shouted at me when I barged in front of him. i was buying a pen and he said: "Hey, kid! You only have a pen and what's the rush? Does you life depend on it?" And I retorted. "Exactly. A pen, therefore, the future of 21st century literature and youth culture does." The others in the queue laughed quite uneasily. Now that's recognition.
    I am still a Northern monkey lost in a concrete jungle; I am still a bedsit pen-pusher. I don't envy your 1920 hours of annual nine-to-five ordinariness anymore than you envy my 11pm - 5am mezzenine, caffeine-addled scribblings. I aim higher though. You to the bosses chair, me to the editors desk.

    Jonathan Doherty, 21, A noughties slum, Manchester, England.



    Originally a letter to a mag, but deserves a place in the gallery. Of course it's over exaggerated... but I kind of think it could be taken as the voice of struggling artistes
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    I think it's horribly clichéd. But entertaining nonetheless.
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    Haiku for Jeremy Clarkson

    Ring-wing petrolhead
    motormouth with hair like a
    shoddy brillo pad.
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    Haiku for James May

    A melancholic
    bore, but really quite lovely.
    Still, hair like a tramp.
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    Haiku for Richard Hammond

    A bloke with penis
    envy and short man syndrome.
    Nice hair compensates.
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    (Original post by foxo)
    Haiku for Richard Hammond

    A bloke with penis
    envy and short man syndrome.
    Nice hair compensates.
    Ooooh, could you do a Stig haiku as well? Incorporating the phrase, 'Some say...'?
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    (Original post by ImperceptibleNinja)
    Ooooh, could you do a Stig haiku as well? Incorporating the phrase, 'Some say...'?
    Some say he's Michael
    Schumacher. All we know is
    he's probably not.
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    I have followed this thread with great interest and have been influenced by my experiences of the ongoing clash in the UK...

    behold.

    THE DIVIDE.
    Attached Images
     
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    (Original post by foxo)
    Some say he's Michael
    Schumacher. All we know is
    he's probably not.
    :clap2:
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    (Original post by . sav .)
    I have followed this thread with great interest and have been influenced by my experiences of the ongoing clash in the UK...

    behold.

    THE DIVIDE.
    hahahahaah
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    (Original post by foxo)
    Some say he's Michael
    Schumacher. All we know is
    he's probably not.

    That's beautiful.
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    I'm very lucky to have thought of this poem so fast.

    Poem of chess and cheese

    Cheese and Chess.
    One edible, one only edible on certain occasions.
    If it's a nice cheddar for example.
    Nice little example, don't you think?

    For I am spelling out two words,
    Little do I know why,
    Is it fate?
    Poem of Chess and Cheese.
 
 
 
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