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by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
I saw the world through a rose-tinted monitor
Illusions in a pixel painted box
Love and beauty, hope and faith
All in one place, we talked
There it was, within our grasp
World peace and brotherhood of men
The end of war, the end of famine
An electronic Eden once again
So paint the world as you will
And hope for better days
But the truth lies underneath
The flowery colored haze
To sleep, perchance to dream...
by Kris Dibou
The problem with total immersion is that you must come up for air or you will suffocate...
I suppose it is like a sailor being lured into the sea by a beautiful mermaid; he is so enamored with her that he does not realize he is drowning; that he has given up his home and family to follow her into the murky depths of oblivion. Perhaps at the point of death he will see the mermaid for who she really is and somehow escape her clutches; perhaps not, but if no one escapes, who would start the legends?
The Mermaid
As I sailed over the seas that my forefathers sailed before
I came upon a sea so calm by a green and grassy shore
The water, warm, the sea so blue, I dove and swam about
And rested on a beach bleached white and dined on ocean trout
As the sun set down on the glassy line twixt today and tonight
I watched my sloop drift to and fro in the waning light
And I as well lay on that line between the light and dark
Not sure if I was in a dream or simply deep in thought
An alien abduction !!!
by Coke Supply
FOX arrives, followed by the landlord !!!
by Coke Supply
The fight to recover L$50,000 and win Zilu's customers continues...
by Coke Supply
An angry store owner, a suspicious alien face hugger -- and a plot to bankrupt Zilu !!!
by Coke Supply
A shocking take of content theft, SL business treachery, and aliens -- based on a true story
by Coke Supply
by Kris Dibou
It occurred to me today that SL is like a gourmet meal that you eat backwards. Allow me to walk you through this meal beginning with the dessert.
1st Course: Dessert
You've joined Secondlife and discovered a world of beautiful women and handsome men, where there is no disease to pick up from casual encounters, save for bruised feelings. Some unknown beings have created beautiful sims for you to cruise around in and you begin to dream in avatars.
by Kris Dibou
In the virtual life you've led
You're neither living, nor are dead
You've met them all but met no one
Drifting under the pixel sun.
And as you tire of this place
The sun that doesn't burn your face
The water that won't make you wet
The death that never will be met
The wind that cannot touch our faces
Wand'ring through virtual places
What then is there in here for you?
Or should I ask you, perhaps, who?
By Kris Dibou
So dark the con of jack
Daggers digging in my back
Under cloak of negotiation
Lies the lies, premeditation
Change the name keep the price
Pacify us into mice
Oh the destruction being wrought!
The lack of humanity in thought
As the societies passed before
Our death waits at Linden's doors
For profit commits genocide
And the seas disappear on the tide.
And the dominoes fall one by one
Recession smothers everyone
Business closes here and there
Frantic exodus anywhere
Broken thoughts broken dreams
Broken trust it now seems
So dark the con of Jack
by Vinzenz Fiertze
The wars of many,
the invincible crew,
her army at the ready,
Vanguards strength proves true.
With insults some squeeze our necks,
until our faces turn blue,
but it seems that their armies names, we always outdo.
They have no clue,
What they have gotten into.
Let us have a mighty spar,
from parcels, regions, and sims afar.
Put their pickled feelings into a jar.
And cover them avast with feather and tar.
I dare ALL the grid's armies, to supox, come fourth,
and attack me now (I'll be waiting in the north).
And after your defeat,
you will see,
how strong a single VG can be!
Continue reading "The Invincible Military's Demise: Drama" »
Inventory server mishap creates inseparable siamese-twin stories
Something went horribly wrong when I put the prims holding the notecards for these two stories on Pixeleen's piano at the Herald offices in Jessie sim - I crashed and when I relogged the prims holding the stories were fused - along with the stories! My interview at the Pearl Victorian brothel is now mixed with an impromptu meeting to determine promiscuity in a mermaid sim - what a mess --Kris.
[we'll try the Linden approach and let the readers sort the fused stories themselves - something like coalesced prims from a bad parcel return - the Editrix]
The Pearl: Victorian Brothel
by Kris Dibou
photos by Bunny Brickworks
When it was suggested to me that I do an interview at a brothel, I was very excited. I love broth, especially with crackers. I was hoping they had beef broth, as I have grown weary of chicken and I wondered if broth was prepared any differently in the Victorian Era. I decided to dress as a Victorian gentleman and be on my best behavior; surely they would offer me some free broth!
Well, imagine my disappointment when I arrived and found there was no food in the whole house; what is more, I think they sold sex there! I spoke with one of the people in charge, Ms. Hagar Qinan:
Continue reading "The Pearl:Victorian Brothel/Promiscuous Mermaids" »
Spam filter fails -- critic battles emo poetry outbreak
by Sigmund Leominster, new media critic
Following the tragic failure of my spam filter to do its job, I recently received an unsolicited email containing a piece of poetry from what was described as someone with “a poet’s heart and pen.” Here’s a clip from the poem:
I understand the truth disease sees
I say nothing teaches needs
I dream great meaningful beings free my mind
I try to kill only loneliness
I hope great love visits me
I am extra vast and lopsided.
In the spirit of full disclosure - and so you can get to know the depths of my shallowness - I have to admit that I hope there is a special place in Hell reserved for people who think that stringing sentences together in short lines qualifies as “poetry.” I am neither a publisher nor a professional critic but it has always seemed to me that people who want to pretend to be writers – especially when they are patently unqualified – tend to call their meanderings “poetry” in the hope that sympathetic readers will gloss over the vapidity and turgidity of their pseudo-literate ramblings. For some reason that philosophers and psychologists have yet to discover, people allow “poets” far more latitude than they deserve. Mangled metaphor, grammatical grinding and weird words are no substitute for riveting writing.
Continue reading "Slouching Toward Bethlehem: The Anti-Poet" »
By Happy Trails, Private Dick
Night was falling on the big sim. It was another warm evening, with few if any clouds. As a matter of fact, I can't remember the last time it rained here; maybe the night Frankenschnail disappeared. I was out pounding the pavement, looking for clues on Amos Anon's disappearance. Earlier I had stopped by public records, but could not find a marriage certificate for Amos and Lulz. They could have been married off the sim though, so I inquired as to his birth certificate. That's when I got more than I bargained for; the birth certificate said he was stillborn. I pulled up the whole family- Amos and Al had a sister, Anna. Amos, Anna and Al Anon were part of a 100 snail litter to Alfred and Audrey Anon. Out of that litter only Al and Anna made it to adulthood. So who was Amos? Where was the marriage certificate? Why was Al playing along with this...or was he...
Real romance and the virtual world
by Mony Markova
Jan opens his eyes and tries to shake off that dream he just had. Now he needs to find her. See what she is up to. Why the odd messages and the odd words from her mouth; the long pauses in conversations? Even the times she was here, she was somewhere else. And worse, now she is nowhere to be found.
So Jan does the unthinkable and wonders if he needs a password to go after her, into that odd world he had been hearing so much about. In most conversations or stories, some reference to that land soon took over: “Ginger did this" or “Paolo did that.” Sometimes he would hear strange comments of what people can and cannot do in that amazing place he called Strange Land.
To Jan the land seems stupid anyway. There were so many things you couldn’t really do there. But still, he has to see it. Find her. He has the eerie feeling that once he was able to move around he would locate her – maybe catch her in the act. Perhaps she is having an affair? Is an affair in Strange Land is really an affair?
The idea sinks deep into Jan’s heart and floods him with sorrow. His eyes feel shaky and he sees himself alone and in despair. Does she know I love her? Where is she!
If darkness was not already cold in Jan’s soul, he made it worse when he thought, What if she is not the same person there?
In need of finding access, he jumps all over the place, while what is left of his sanity tires to figure out her password. Clues, I need clues, he screams! And so big is his desperation and so huge his pleas that somehow, someway, he manages to open an access door to the land, like a bright light, like a window that opens and fresh air enters. Now he can peek in there, walk it, see it, and yes, get her!
Continue reading "Postals From Strange Land: The Awakening" »
by John Norman-Greenbaum
In another world in the days of yore
I snuck a peek inside the world of Gor
I thought I'd seen all I abhore
Until I saw them lying on the floor
The vile Sweatsocks of Gor.
Wove of the wool of an abus'ed sheep
They stunk of her masters wet slimey feet
I ran far away, but still they did reek
Oh, my god! if only I hadn't peeked
At the vile Sweatsocks of Gor.
When Jason sought out the great golden fleece
Clipped from the hide of an ovian beast
He never dreamed, he did not in the least
Smell the infection caused by too much yeast
The vile Sweatsocks of Gor.
Her master said they would make her complete
If she'd bow down and kiss her master's feet
The socks had been worn for 17 weeks
Burned holes in marble and smelled of bad meat
The vile Sweatsocks of Gor.
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
My love is a little furry thing
With whiskers long and paws so thin
Her tail swishes as she sighs
With lovelight pouring from her eyes
Her pointed ears twitch to my touch
As I scratch them oh so much
And she lays on her back with paws curled up
With 6 small breasts for all her pups
I vacuum the hair when she sheds
A problem with those multipeds
But I love her anyway
Let her purr the night away
How good she'd be in a spicy stew
Lots of meat for us to chew
String her up and dress her out
Gather the bones and haul them out
copyright (c) 2008 - Kris Dibou - used by the gracious permission of the author.
by Happy Trails, Private Eye
I was sitting back in my office sipping on my Jack Daniels, my head still spinning from the three Gin & Tonics, 7 Screwdrivers, and 3 Dirty Mothers from last night when the front door opened. In walked this dame that made my breath jump up and dance around. I hid the Jack back in the desk drawer and invited her to sit.
"Hello, my name is Lulz....Lulz Anon. I heard you might be able to help me."
"Do go on, Miss", I said in a calm tone.
"It's my husband, Amos- he's missing".
I called Escargot over to take notes while we talked. She made a file folder for the A section....Anon, Amos...how appropriate.
"When's the last time you saw Amos, Ms. Anon?"
"Call me Lulz, everyone calls me Lulz. It's been five days now. I've tried filing a report with the police but as far as I can tell, they've done nothing."
Chapter III
by Happy Trails
[confused readers may wish to refer to episodes 1 and 2]
snailmonster
From Oozeff Von Frankenschnail's personal diary:
...My beautiful creature...so long I have spent in his creation! Now all is lost! I write to you in this cave with my future sister-in-law, Escargot, both prisoners of the creature. Poor Byron was crushed by the monster when he tried to rescue me. I only hope someone comes to look in the old caverns beneath the windmill...
by Happy Trails
The lab was a wreck. Someone or something had smashed anything breakable and a few things that weren't. This was quite an interesting laboratory Oozeff had built. I had never been down here before, and the first thing I noticed was the large gurney in the middle of the room. There were thick leather straps lying broken on the floor beneath it. I looked for a slime trail. I could see Oozeff's where he came in, but the trail that went from the gurney and disappeared into the wall......was huge...and it smelled bad.
I snatched up Oozeff's journal and packed it into my shell then felt around on the wall for the secret door release. When it finally popped open I followed the path down to the riverside where it opened out onto the beach. That's where I lost the trail, so I made my way back to my place.
When I got there, the door appeared to be wide open. As I got closer I saw that there was no door. I turned the house inside out; Escargot was missing, and the place smelled of foul slime.
Now my first instinct was to go out blindly searching for my baby, but I realized that without something to go on I would be wasting my time. So I gave the police a call and reported the break-in and possible kidnapping.
Chapter I- Dr. Frankenschnail
by Happy Trails
I've had a lot of cases in the big sim, but there is still one that makes me wake in the night in a cold sweat. It's time I told the story, for my own sanity.
We snails have our own med school here in town; a good one too, with a large research department. The university is the hope of the future for the snail community; a light at the end of the tunnel, so to speak. Then came young Dr. Frankenschnail.
Oozeff Von Frankenschnail was one of those Swiss snails who moved here after the big leaf famine of '07. Smartest snail I ever met. He kept talking about chemical compounds with high doses of energy that could reanimate dead cells. I'd say 'Huh?', and he would laugh, then pull a few different bottles out of my wet bar, mix them together, drop in a frogs leg and connect a hot wire to it. Now this isn't your normal 'make the frog jump' gag- this leg would dance you an Irish Jig and then glide smoothly into a waltz. Oozeff was a genius.
By Kris Dibou, Poet
I sit inside my pixeled house made of tortured prims;
With headphones off I stare and hear the silence of the sims.
I think about the path I took when I was new and green;
The lives I've touched as carelessly as if I'd never been.
Would the joy we felt back then outweigh all our sins
Or does she sit in wonder at the silence of the sims?
by Happy Trails, slick private eye
As a snail, I get stepped on a lot. Usually it's some noob who doesn't look where they're going. And yes, I've been in a lot of sticky situations. Escagot is quite a dame, though. She stands by me no matter what and doesn't criticize me for all my drinking...and ya know, that case she handed me this morning had some interesting facts.
The rash of dissappearances started shortly after the cooking school incident. Chronologically, the missing people all vanished in the shape of a spiral, or a snails shell, centering at the cooking school. Seemed to me that the solution to that case would lie in there, and that would fit into my plans. Added benefit: someone would now be paying me for my revenge.
Then there was Fatboy; the thing that didn't add up. Escargot and I spent the night in Pixeleen's butter. How did Pix get butter on her fingers for Fatboy to slip out of? If she had stuck her fingers in the butter she would have caught Escargot and me doing the nasty.
by Happy Trails, slick private detective
Now something had to be done about this french cooking school, and I was just the snail to do it. I opened an office over on 5th street and hired Escargot as my receptionist. Happy Trails, Private Detective. Yeah, that's me...gumshoe...private dick. I began by hitting every dive and gin joint in town to scrape up a team to hit the place. I took on a lot of side jobs to fund this project, mostly trailing cheating wives. Once they've had snail....anyway, that's another story.
So one morning I'm in my office helping Escargot get her shell back on. She sure could take dictation. I heard the front door bell chime. I nearly fell off the desk. In walked Fatboy.
"Fatboy!", I said, "You're supposed to be dead. I saw you in Pixeleen's jar at the cooking school".
"Ha! Ain' no wannabe French Chef gonna do in Fatboy!", he replied.
"I'll go fix some coffee while you two get reacquainted", Escargot chimed in.
"Don't hold back on the brandy, baby".
"..if you have any left", she chided.
by Happy Trails - survivalist snail
There are 10,000 ugly snails in the big sim. I'm one of them- they call me Trails. This is my story.
I was out one night, minding my own business; hanging with my best girl, Escargot. Pretty little french snail. I've been working on her a long time, and I thought this would be the night I got her out of her shell. We were in a seedy little bar on the west side, and I was on my 3rd vodka martini, while she drank strawberry margaritas (no salt).
We were getting pretty shit-faced when we slithered out of the bar. It all seems clear now, but was so hazy at the time. I remember her shell was already 1/2 off and she was ready for action. This was going to be my big night. That's when it happened. The canning jar scooped us up, and before I could turn my head, the lid was on.
Although my head was spinning from the martinis and the bottle of jack daniels I had for breakfast this morning, I could see clearly through the jar, as it acted like a magnifying glass for me. We were being taken to the french cooking school. That could only mean one thing: Pixeleen was having another cooking lesson.
by Nidol Slazar, WU poet in residence
Once upon an internet,
Lived a group of ruthless trolls,
Whom began to pose a virtual threat,
With their vile and treacherous souls,
This vast collective of hate,
Wearing masks of anonymity,
Feared not one place to desecrate,
With their state of unanimity,
Unknown to the public eye,
Existed the people behind the screen,
That could be anyone nearby,
Part of the internet hate machine,
by Artfox Daviau
oh btw atm im in IM
and a noob at it imho it seems
cos the ppl in here chat in shorthand
omg wtf does it mean?
ni went 2 the puter this am
and the msg in there that i seen
cd a bin abt ne ol topic
omg wtf does it mean?
o skuz me brb bbl
want 2 c if the postman has been
visits rarer and rarer each day now
omg wtf does that mean?
now i no u r rofling about me
im 2 old 2 converse 2 a teen
my hds r in english u c
pls dont lol wtf does it mean?
copyright (c) 2008 - Artfox Daviau - used by the gracious permission of the author.
by Dazz Anvil
I was running low on lindens
so I tried to get some cash
when it failed I went get some help
and the simulator crashed
It took an hour to log back in
cuz the asset server’s down
and there were no mentors anywhere
Just a newbie dressed in brown
-----------------
Second Life is borked again
Yeah what else is new
My clothes don’t wanna stay on now
And I can’t attach my shoe
My inventory’s all messed up
and hippos are my friends
but the blog says all are happy now
according to the trends
------------------
Lately I’ve been wondering
How long will this lag last
I just teleported
Now my hair’s stuck in my ass
I downloaded the new RC
with the dazzle color suite
now my avi just won’t stand up straight
I can’t even see its feet
--------------------
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
The call of the sea is deep and strong,
Stronger than ale or beer;
But not as strong
As the siren's song
and the call of the privateer.
Pirates and corsairs sail the seas
Along with the buccaneers;
But the noblest rogue
Who's still in vogue
Is known as the privateer.
Yes, on the sea of Antiquity
We sail without doubt or fear;
For the Navy falls
Short on balls
To the call of the privateer.
copyright (c) 2008 - Kris Dibou - used by the gracious permission of the author.
by Nidol Slazar
When your life is spiraling downwards,
after you've fallen through the crack,
At the bottom there is nothing,
and there's no way of getting back,
When things begin to lose their meaning,
As your personality goes astray,
People hate you more and more,
As you live through another day,
When the feelings pick apart your soul,
I'm sorry to say there is no chemo,
Perhaps you should stop kidding yourself,
And admit that you are an emo,
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
There was a little man in a gloomy little house,
He wouldnt talk to you and he didnt have a spouse;
But he had a 'puter and an account to old SL
Where he became a man that could raise a little hell.
He made himself so strong and he made himself so young,
A pistol in each hand and he made himself well-hung.
He taught himself to build and he taught himself to sell;
He opened strings of shops and he loved the ladies well.
Through SL he went like a sled upon a glacier,
Trying everything and going against nature.
His friend list was so heavy and his groups were all maxed out;
You had to leave him notes cuz his IM's wouldnt route.
His mansion was so full of many tortured prim,
He had so many things that there was no room for him.
He had to block his friends and the ones he left behind;
In the pressure of this world, he nearly lost his mind.
So he moved his handsome avi into a gloomy little house,
He wouldnt talk to you and he no longer had a spouse;
But he had some land here in old SL,
And here he sat, a man, in his brand new virtual cell.
copyright (c) 2008 - Kris Dibou - used by the gracious permission of the author.
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
For a year and a half I lived in the world
Of they who cannot be named
I sang of the joys, I sang of the beauty
In the place that cannot be named
And as I learned, I helped to build
This world that cannot be named
I believed when they said that I was now one
Of they who cannot be named
And how proud we were of this wonderful world
This world that cannot be named
Created by the users, that makes us the owners
Of this place that cannot be named
And just like the parts of the body who claimed
Sovereignty over the whole
When one part locked up the rest found out
The ruler was the asshole.
copyright (c) 2008 - Kris Dibou - used by the gracious permission of the author.
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
abbacddcefefgg
The edge of reason being very near
And all the people gathering to see
What appears to be insecurity
As I am pixels on my monitor
And here in generated body stand
I but not the way that you would think of
But in the way that generates my love
And spreads it out without the touch of hand
Would it be felt around the rl earth
Through cables on the ocean floor lying?
Or through the universal mind in verse
Imagined in your mind, there undying?
And would this love pass back to me in time
Or was it always there before the rhyme?
copyright (c) 2008 - Kris Dibou - used by the gracious permission of the author.
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
A captainless ship flew past my watch,
A sign of things to be;
Where once the ship sailed straight and true,
Where once she sailed free;
She wanders lost on ragged seas
And seems to lose her way;
And she never sinks beneath the waves
No harbor found, nor quay.
That she floats, is it enough?
Can that be all she needs?
Or is it best that she should sink
and keep her dignity?
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
Feeling creative, forceful, and bold
I sought out the server code
Onto my harddisc quickly it lands
Tip-tap, clicking with my hands
What did I have when I loaded it
Down? What the hell is this shit?
OMG this really sucks the big
One, I think I need a cig...
Wait a minute, I don't smoke those things;
Not menthol, filtered, or Kings...
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
Have you ever wondered if, when a pair of avies mate,
If the owners on the other side sit and masturbate?
When the avies join as one in order to copulate
Are they really getting a sandwich and watching News at Eight?
Is the girl whose name is Pam a big fat hairy man?
Is the 'boy', who we'll call Roy a closet lesbian?
And if these two do what they do, not knowing any more
Were to find the truth behind the others closet door
What label now, could someone give to lovers in that fix?
Encompassing more than metro-sex and, no less, chix with dix;
I suggest when you request to know the secret intellectual
Perhaps nice generic name might be Meta-sexual!
copyright (c) 2008 - Kris Dibou - used by the gracious permission of the author.
AAP awards Best in Media and Cultural Studies - WTF?
Yes, the infamous Doomsday book (The Second Life Herald: The Virtual Tabloid That Witnessed the Dawn of the Metaverse) penned by literary lions Ludlow and Wallace has shocked and awed friend and foe alike for months now, and the reviews have gushed over its Mark Leyneresque prose and its Quentin Tarantino plot stylings, but now even the academic publishers and their fellow travelers have weighed in with a simple message: this is one of the greatest works of something or other in weeks! really - at least two or three weeks!!!
In a press release dated Feb. 7, the Association of American Publishers (APA) announced that their Professional and Scholarly Publishing Division were giving a 2007 Award for Excellence to the Ludlow/Wallace masterpiece in the category of Media and Cultural Studies. And who can really blame them? To this end they join a chorus of fanbois, fangrrrls, and assorted fluffers who are all on the same page about this one deep truth: The Second Life Herald is not only the greatest online virtual tabloid covering virtual bukkake and griefer-on-furry drama in the metaverse, but the book is even better than that!
As the award committee said might have said: "If you haven't read it, your life is fail."
DATELINE: Fri Feb 15 16:05:21 2008
PrimTIme News Service
Fed up with clubs and shopping? Want some excitement in your pathetic Second Life? If getting banned was beyond your creative reach - Griefing for Dummies might just be the answer you were searching for. From old-school flying penises to bringing the grid down, everything is covered to ensure your enjoyment of your SL in spite of being lousy at cyber.
I’m Keiko Ketsugo and I approve this message, as I'd rather crash than tolerate you little people’s tedious conversations.
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
In order to escape the naggage
I came here without baggage
The women have no saggage;
I love to watch their waggage,
The major cause of laggage.
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
He thought he found himself in heaven
When all his dreams he seized;
All he wanted for the taking
Or creating, as he pleased
The months flew by and all he tried
Grew tiring in the depth
And degree of concentration made,
To max the width and breadth
Of all he ever fantasized
In this life or the next
Until he cared not for his life.
The governer, he did text:
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
On a lavish textured slope
With megaprim tree, built;
My lover, sweet, lay in my arms,
Couple 10 in kilt.
And we commented on the moon
And stars that dripped like honey;
I made a joke and she chuckled as
If she thought it funny.
I carressed her cheek with words formed sweet
As I was want to do;
Seduced her mind and soon, in time,
Seduced her body too.
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
Sitting at the counter tapping
Fingers, just this side of napping;
Pondering at trip back in to
Secondlife once more.
Is she sitting somewhere waiting?
As we speak she's contemplating
The blue button, taking her to
Secondlife once more.
Metaversal mem'ries clinging
To the real human being;
Would it be safe for them back in
Secondlife once more?
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
Did you fall asleep last night and dream of avatars;
Your metaversal image taking over what you are?
Walking on a new frontier where none have been before
Torn, the fabric of the life you thought you had before
Your definition of reality must be replaced
Where you thought your soul was hid has just become displaced
Vampiric is the force that takes you from your daily grind
Feeding on the life you had and syphoning your mind
Did you fall asleep last night and dream of human beings;
A race that once existed in an avatar's bad dream?
copyright (c) 2008 - Kris Dibou - used by the gracious permission of the author.
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
I sleep by the luminous light
Of my laptop, left on all night;
As closer I drift towards the place
Of digital time, life and space.
Evolution's next step for man?
The digital body's at hand!
When at last we move without keys;
No sickness, death nor disease.
Are not our streets paved with gold
Like in the stories of old?
Will we have eternal life,
Immune to the rifle and knife?
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
Across the sea in Antiquity
Where steam punk engines churn;
The royal navy set about
The task that we shall learn.
To protect the merchants and their ships
And the casual sailor, too;
They searched the sea of Antiquity
For pirates, mighty who
Attack and burn without a word
Or warning cannon shot;
And vanish soon without a trace
'Cept burning flotsam, hot.
A trap was set to close a net
On the wiley pirates there;
The decoy sat on water that
The wind avoided, where
tune by, and apologies to, David Bowie
by Faerie Hax
It's a God awful small affair
To the girl with the purple hair,
But everyone is yelling, "No!"
And her friend has told her to go,
But her friend is no where to be seen.
Now she walks through her sunken dream
To the seats with the clearest view
And she's hooked to her little screen,
But the sim is sadd'ning bore
For she's explored it ten times or more.
She could spit in the eyes of fools
As they ask her to focus on
Campers
Fighting in the dance club.
Oh man!
Look at those cavemen go.
It's the freakiest show.
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
For a fist full of lindens
I invested in a bank;
I watched my portfolio
As its value tanked.
For a few lindens more
My nest egg I had nesting;
Gambling's not illegal
If you call it all 'investing'.
Good, bad and ugly,
The levels jumped around
Until the virtual line
Hit the virtual ground.
I climbed a virtual building
And took a virtual dive;
I landed on my head
But I'm still alive.
Now that I am broke
My friends all hit the road;
But next month will be different-
I bought another load.
copyright (c) 2007 - Kris Dibou - used by the gracious permission of the author.
Failure of PN's rumored friday griefing raid causes super hero to wax poetic
[GreenLantern Excelsior sent this tale of online heroics to the Herald offices via the mojo wire saturday, with a note saying "I was inspired to write this after the big PN raid last night ended up fizzling like a wet firecracker". Is the heroic epic poetic tradition is being updated for the new media? -the Editrix]
Banned griefer's ghosted avatar stuck in a walking animation is decorated with props in Sandbox Cordova
by GreenLantern Excelsior
The Great PN Raid of November '07
Was planned to be vicious and mean,
With sim-crashing style,
And "lulz" by the mile,
The worst Second Lifers had seen.
The Green Lantern Core and the great Justice League
Were prepared to observe and report.
With their shields charged to max,
They'd AR the attacks
By the griefers they'd promised to thwart.
The Lindens were ready, their steely eyes steady.
The Grid was in perfect repair.
At the first sign of trouble
They'd move on the double,
Protecting the residents there.
Continue reading "Green Lantern Core's Heroic Epic Poetry" »
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
I was lying on my back, looking at the stars
When an airship passed between myself and Mars
Gracefully it drifted in the moonlit night
All it's sails full, it's balloon was glowing bright
The wooden ship that hung from the large balloon
Had lanterns all alit, and I could hear a tune
Played on violin drifting through the air
I lifted my spyglass and saw the captain standing there
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