Awful - a thread for BAD things

*Charlie Parker* · 22nd November 2005, 1:56am

Your own works or others be it poetry, stories BLAH

I found this in an old journal. Terrible!

Stooge
Scowl on the face again
Hope to never see another reflection
Bottles bring out the worst
Neon early morning stupidity
My liver's ashamed
Memory slashed on a cold dawn
A head pressed far too close to the wall
How much was forced or intuitive?
Egoes shoved hard
Grin and bare in the face of failure
Answers laced with lies to hide my shame

fallen_nemesis · 22nd November 2005, 2:05am

Z for Zachariah I remeber as being a god awful book :/

no seriously. Absolutely godawful. They even managed to take the amusement out of amish people for me :/

sarabee · 22nd November 2005, 2:13am

Ahh, but did you read it in school?

fallen_nemesis · 22nd November 2005, 10:37am

Posh · 22nd November 2005, 10:52am

Quote:

Originally Posted by Charlie Parker

Stooge
Scowl on the face again
Hope to never see another reflection
Bottles bring out the worst
Neon early morning stupidity
My liver's ashamed
Memory slashed on a cold dawn
A head pressed far too close to the wall
How much was forced or intuitive?
Egoes shoved hard
Grin and bare in the face of failure
Answers laced with lies to hide my shame

That cracked me the fuck up.

I'm tempted to post Chevys lyrics in here.

fallen_nemesis · 22nd November 2005, 11:56am

"You're so rad
more rad than my dad
if you were a fabric you'd be plaid
Everybody knows plaid is so rad
i think about you and i go mad
You're so rad
you really spark my nads
some say you're good but i know you're bad
if you go i'll be sad
stop the presses run an ad
if there were three of you
you'd be a rad triad
You're so rad."

heh. that song takes some beating.

*Charlie Parker* · 22nd November 2005, 3:14pm

Quote:

Originally Posted by Posh

That cracked me the fuck up.

I'm tempted to post Chevys lyrics in here.

I must've had a goth phase and not realised it

**PapaZeb** · 22nd November 2005, 3:19pm

http://www.alternativenation.net/for...ad.php?t=90331

Semprini · 22nd November 2005, 5:28pm

Quote:

Originally Posted by fallen_nemesis

Z for Zachariah I remeber as being a god awful book :/

Oh good god I hated that book.

Rowsbette · 22nd November 2005, 6:56pm

On my old computer I have a big chunk of a story I wrote when 13 or so... the only thing I can remember about it is that one of the chicks was called Cookie. Always bodes well. My halfhearted attempts at poetry are also rather good for a laugh, I'll see if I can dig 'em up.

I started a thread here for fucking terrible books a while ago, I'll have a rummage and re-post the stuff you shouldn't ever touch with a ten-foot bargepole.

22nd November 2005, 7:02pm

Quote:

Originally Posted by Rowsbette

On my old computer I have a big chunk of a story I wrote when 13 or so... the only thing I can remember about it is that one of the chicks was called Cookie. Always bodes well. My halfhearted attempts at poetry are also rather good for a laugh, I'll see if I can dig 'em up.

I started a thread here for fucking terrible books a while ago, I'll have a rummage and re-post the stuff you shouldn't ever touch with a ten-foot bargepole.

Start with the entire Point Horror/Point Romance collection

*Charlie Parker* · 22nd November 2005, 7:03pm

Over snow capped mountains, through gloomy forests and across wild, wind swept plains Ragnar had traversed. Wearily wandered across a world as that was his want. Peoples and beasts he had encountered in every conceivable shape and form, every colour and hue but here on the seeming edge of the world madness seemed to reign.
There were three of them, three riders out of nightmare, riding creatures that were no mount the like Ragnar had ever seen before. More pig than horse, the purple snorting bloated things that the strange riders goaded on with long supple barbed staffs made the man’s blood run cold. The riders themselves were vaguely human in form but they had pale, almost milky white skin and were hairless, riding naked and communicating to each other in eerie howls.
As the scrub flecked plain they chased him across began to give way to rolling foothills, he increased his pace, damning his tiredness and pumping his legs up the nearest and steepest slope. If these howling abominations wanted his carcass to feed their pig mounts or themselves he was damned if they would get it without a hard fight.

Juvenile conan rip off ahoy :\

Oskar · 22nd November 2005, 7:06pm

Ah dear...
The world is not what it appears,
The world is not what it seems;
You die when you're living,
You cling to your dreams.
A hole opens up to consume you,
The ground crumbles like sand,
You're falling into nothing,
No-one's there to grip your hand.
But it's ok that you're falling,
It's ok that you're alone,
There's no-one there to hold you,
Learn to make it on your own.

*Charlie Parker* · 22nd November 2005, 7:08pm

More unfinished juvenile slodge. What kind of name is Borx?

I
At the summit of a gently rolling hill the great silver spires of the Heights rose upward towards the vastness of the summer night sky, where wisps of cloud played across the surface of a sickle moon that hung amongst an array of twinkling stars. Downhill from the towers and temples of the royalty and rich and the lucky the ramshackle slum of the Downs spread out, a mass of crude dwellings and buildings that only the poor, the wretched and the unfortunate called home. Silvistrim was a city of endless contrast; piety and atheism, powerful and powerless, rich and poor, alive and dead.
On this stifling night a troop of guardsmen led by an Adjudicator made their way quickly down a twisting street amongst the twisting warren of the Downs. It was the worst kind of summer’s twilight, the air hung oppressive and streets stunk of rotting waste. The troop were on the northern outskirts of the Downs where the buildings were of better construction than those to be found downhill, sturdy stone and strong timber instead of lank straw and rotting planks.
This particular street was deserted for it was home to some of the stranger inhabitants of the Downs, ones whose tastes or religion ran even too perverse or weird for even the most terminal of outcasts. Past the House Of Animals and past the Lodge Of Geldings the five man band quickly made their way until the Adjudicator raised a gloved hand and they halted before the Hall Of Chexlexus.
The youngest of the guardsmen spat on the rough cobbles underfoot and hitched his sword belt, turning towards his companion Tobarn and let loose a mocking barbed laugh.
“This is a joke,” he sighed.
“Aye it is indeed Torgan,” answered the older man, scratching his forehead,” we’re out chasing phantoms.”
“The Adjudicator seems to believe in phantoms,” Torgan commented.
“Old Borx talks out of his arse. If he had any sense he would find the nearest funny lookin’ foreigner or dribblin’ beggar to take the blame and hang them instead of having us run around after fictitious ghosts,” Tobarn grinned, picking at his ear with a dirty finger.
It had all begun an hour previous. Their nightly patrol had stumbled upon a staggering, gibbering wreck of a man, recognised to be the owner of the Sickle and Scythe tavern on Brass Avenue. Getting no sense out of the man except babblings of demons they had escorted him back to his premises to discover a scene of utter carnage.
The Sickle and Scythe itself had been a ruin, the doors reduced to shards and the large hall was strewn with broken furniture but the most horrific destruction had been laid upon the twisted ruptured forms of the revellers, their blood soaking near enough every inch of the drinking den’s surface and their innards blooming out of red raw gashes torn by something that no sword or axe had carved.
Even Borx the Adjudicator had turned ghostly pale, a man of more than fifty years who had seen death in more wretched forms than he could count from the most heinous torture to poor souls drowned in puddles of excrement.
Torgan had vomited into the gutter until his stomach was empty and he was heaving up nothing.
“By the Rose what a mess,” Tobarn had uttered, picking up a piece of small intestine that was curled on top of a shattered table, examining it then flicking it away with a shudder. Tobarn had turned to Borx who stood grasping the mewling innkeeper in an iron grip and had shaken his head.
“I haven’t seen anything this fuckin’ bad since that mined breach at the siege of Badahoss ten years ago cap’n,” he had stated.
Borx had thrown him a steely look and backed out onto the street away from the scene of death, pulling the innkeeper with him.

NEEDS MORE WORK HERE

Borx paused at the great oak door and turned to view his men sighing inwardly, they were a useless rag tag bunch but they were all he had. The was Tobarn the old soldier who could handle himself and a two fresh faced recruits that looked promising but of the other two, one was blind in one eye and the other had no tongue. Bloody hopeless, he thought.
“Right lads, this is the household of name the old innkeeper mumbled before he passed on, we’re going in but we’re playing it quiet. Don’t mention anything about the massacre in face just don’t bloody say anything at all got it?” Borx growled, puffing his chest out.
The five men mumbled agreement

*LesMTS* · 22nd November 2005, 7:14pm

When I was about 14 or 15 I was in a God-awful band with a bunch of mates from school, none of us could play an instrument.....we were called 'Kinslaughter' (no joke) and the chorus to one of our songs was "Life mistreats me! Suicidal feelings deplete me!".....oh, the shame!
Oh yeah, and the first verse (thankfully the only one I can remember) was a thesaurus-o-thon....."Sanguine quandry looks at me, facetious life is all I can see" hahahahaha, bloody hell.