The Campaign Builder's Guild

Quote from: Four Letter WordsYou make love
You break love
You fake love
Erase love
Berate love
Forsake love'"

For the sake of love
Stop.

QuoteThe [Redacted] Story

You are [classified]
When we [redacted] on the [withdrawn],
I [omitted], you [redacted]
But you [removed], your [classified] were [omitted]
And that's why we were so [withdrawn]

Quote from: BileI'm shadowboxing a wraith of self-hatred, and time and again I've been barely coming out the victor. The warden shouts at me to hold the pressure in, to seal away the reactor to avoid a meltdown. I'm the only one that isn't allowed to show negative emotion.

So I wind up my roll of duct tape, plug my bayonet into my empty eye socket and go and drink poisoned thoughts from empty cups. The trickster pulls her sleight of hand, my vision becomes unfocused, and suddenly everyone's looking at me like I'm the strange one. Their faces contort and groans escape their lips. I sit in my solitary dark corner, watching the display, disgusted by it all but unwillingly fascinated by the grotesques before me. A layer of filth and grime coats the floors and tables and the people that populate them, but just take a whisk of the magical little potion and it all goes away.

Suddenly, I come to the realization, the moment of clarity that I've been waiting for. I'm no longer aware of where I am, it doesn't really matter at this point, but when I put the key into the ignition, reality blurs around me. Grappling my arms away from me and pinning them to the ground, the Great Drunk Beast fills my heart with blackness, pours hatred down my throat, and fills my muscles with the strength to be everything I am not. The transformation leaves me not quite a brute but certainly uncouth, and within my sights are all the baser emotions, all the fundamental components that form my otherwise complex neurology. Or neuroses.

But the black flame that consumes me, the one ignited by this unholy concoction, will burn me alive if I allow it.

Quote from: Sweet Son of ParadoxI am the god of the anthill
The king of dust mites
Emperor of microbes.

I wear a crown of filth,
A robe of rubbish,
And hold a scepter of grime.

And despite it all
I grin through tears
For at least I still am royal.

Quote from: The Nutmeg AddictWhen last I heard the forlorn call of lost and leery foes
I held a keg of milk and egg as people nearly froze
An early winter storm blew in of fierce and lashing tongue
And hindered us from finding where the mistletoe had hung
The sleigh bells broke and rang no more, the carpenter went home
As fabled hopes had sang and soared, a harbinger to roam.

When dazzled little midnight specks of starlight sky did fall,
The magic of the festival had glowed throughout the hall
Songs of folklore and of myth had been wrapped in sweaters warm
As babies born in snowy fields were left for God to mourn
The townsfolk came and made their peace with sunny manner still
As the crippled old Nutmeg Addict saw his spirit killed.

Hypocrites and malcontents were the first to then speak up
And wrest then from the Nutmeg man his psychedelic cup
With twisted grins, these empty men then moved with hate and spite
And the town watched still in sin the Nutmeg Addict's fight
The haggard hazardous old man was pried from winter's seat
And soon they threw him into the frigid crystal street.

As Christmas gifts and vicious lips spoke of the Nutmeg Man
Viscous quips and mistresses discussed then the New Year's plan
The murderers and riot mob would round the city block
And with some luck they'd single out the hanger of the socks
For this small town with all its little brownstones in a row
Was beholden to a Devil who dwelled within the snow.

Quote from: Streetwise Hipster

Quote from: Sweet Son of ParadoxI am the god of the anthill
The king of dust mites
Emperor of microbes.

I wear a crown of filth,
A robe of rubbish,
And hold a scepter of grime.

And despite it all
I grin through tears
For at least I still am royal.

This is fantastic, just wanted to say that, thanks for posting it :D

Quote from: Neo-Post-Post-Post-ModernismThe problem as it used to be was failure to communicate
The walls we'd built had led us to impale and yet to ruminate
But now the privacy of past has all but vanished to the wind
As information floods to us regarding enemies and friends

I do not care about your thoughts on Lindsey Lohan's life
I do not  care about your recent quarrel with your wife
This static on the Internet seeks to creep inside my brain
I long for silent days and nights and wish for malcontent again.

Quote from: Worse than Before but Still All the SameI'm buried beneath a pile of dirty white socks
As I draw a artistic masterpiece via lightbox
I prance and dance with my friend Lance until the day is dawn
And then we both grab lemonades and set fire to the lawn

The warlord calls and warns us where to stay
So I throw my friend into a cell and set out on my way
The commissioner and his posse ride up the city street
And every last one of them has on a pair of spiked cleats

The blind old cynic calls out to Julius
He tells the old dictator about the sin of hubris
Then Brutus comes from nowhere and pulls a great prank
And crucifies the pirate lord from the deck of the plank

Soldiers born to Heracles hold their standard true
So I go into the merry seas and oceans so blue
The pantograph hatches Prometheus' scheme
And issues commands from the nuclear machine

Nero uses his new gift to burn Rome to the ground
As politicians use the chance to spread the wealth around
Patrician families hold their status to the gods
As Antoinette force-feeds cake to all of the clods

From the ashes of the city a phoenix does arise
And Tom Outland's engine sprays oil into my eyes
Sarkozy and Putin exchange a tense stare
As the changing of the guard brings grey to my hair

The aging of a people brings fat to their belly
And old Willy Loman can't remember what to sell me
He walks into the poison hole to breathe the cyanide
And Biff cannot decide if it is patricide

Vonnegut and Cather dress up for the waltz
As Langston Hughes and blues men argue at the march
Malcolm and Robert are murdered at the fair
And my gnarled wooden leg turns into a chair

Sitting at the table, I play my fiddle loud
And Moses and Jesus part the middle of the crowd
I see red, the crowd goes dead, silent as a photo
And Jesus breaks out his guitar and hammers out a solo

Suddenly a demon who calls himself Walker
Goes to war with stories written by Faulkner
Racist old men explode all over Birmingham
About matters that should not be concerning them

A sword and a shield appear in my hands
I throw them aside and go buy up some land
Katrina, the temptress, she wrecks the old town
Leaving gumbo chefs with a permanent frown
 
The story keeps on changing, the writer is scared
All the world filters through his angry red flare
The poet calms his nerves and slips him some booze
What comes next seems almost too hard to choose.

Quote from: Longevity of SoulsI weep the tears of Solomon when last he heard the call
Of all his wives of foreign gods within his crumbling hall
That wise old sage had forsook the powers he beheld
And Caesar's troops ensured that old Israel was felled
The corona of history was passed soon to the King
First to Herod then the Christ, the pivot soon would swing
As Zealots called to Pharisees and called for Jesus' blood
Black storm clouds turned the sandy desert into mud
Simon born as Peter rose and took the papal crown
As Saul of Tarsus stood in awe as light would soon surround

Apologists and charlatans would tarnish their good names
But Augustine and Charlemagne restored the sacred chain
The kings and princes of the time soon assumed a role
As enforcers of the cross, a goblet was their goal
Barbarism and disdain became the twisted truths
And cuckold Arthur became the rising youth
When folk tales of the ancient past were revived from ash
History was soon revised so Christians would not clash
Up in flame and up in smoke went Alexandria
Its library and pagan thought met with malice and mistrust

So great evil and great good soon would come to pass
In name of God and name of King and especially of class
Europa seemed corrupted by a universal greed
So Martin Luther went to Worms and posted his treatise
Calvinistic doctrine soon swept the northern lands
And good old Henry seized the chance to marry yet again
Impure yet within the minds of the most Puritan at heart
The Anglicans began to tear themselves apart
Ousted from their nation and without home or hope
The outcasts left Angleterre and learned soon how to cope

The blizzards of this foreign land hardened their resolve
And soon the wars began against the native tribes involved
Colonies grew discontent and declared their independence
As slavery became the norm for social men of interest
The generals played their games and fought a bloody war
But soon the King grew tired and severed his support
A nation birthed in thought and deed separate from the church
Was born to Thomas Jefferson under Sally Hemmings' skirt
Muskets flashed and rifles passed from farmer then to soldier
As tensions grew, the nation blew apart its bold composure

The war was won when all was done with casualties aplenty
As the nation wept for their kin, Lincoln died violently
Republicans and Democrats blustered and rebuilt
As dreams of black men from the South were hidden in the silt
Christ and God were soon invoked by parties young and old
The righteous and the selfish both believed their sacred goal
Emerson spoke to the priests and told them, 'Look within'
Harvard made a point not to invite him e'er again
Transcendental humanists expand the nation's mind
But Whitman stood in nature with a smile and declined

The brewing storm across the world exploded in a flash
And godless men of all the lands bled and fought and thrashed
Their disillusioned shells returned to deadened lands abroad
They numbed the pain and lived a life as tragic as was flawed
Depression settled in the land as the Satan on the Rhine
Peddled works of hate and spite that saw his quickened climb
The hammer and the sickle rose and straddled all the East
And planes and tanks and guns soon replaced the ancient priests
The Chosen Tribes of Israel were slaughtered by the score
And Franklin, Winston, and Josef battered down the door

The fungus cloud erupted and the Rising Sun withdrew
As the clawing hands of two titans began the fight anew
The dust had hardly settled as the children squandered peace
As the Israeli specter loomed above the Middle East
Armed with power and with flame granted by the world
They dominated all they saw with rockets they had hurled
The chessboard of the global map became a deadly game
Until the rise of Gorbachev who sought a different claim
The end of war was thought by all to be soon within grasp
As Bosnia and Rwanda were both allowed to pass

Terror and oppression were now the tools of trade
By both sides of conflicted testaments of faith
Were that the problems of all men and women yet so clear
It sometimes seems as though mere chance that we are even here.

Quote from: on run running on run-onI'm mumbling to a pair of sneakers about the injustice of the war, but I can't hardly see the person standing in the mirror because the sky is too green and the earth is black and everything is wrong. But I don't know if it's just because I'm sitting all alone in a little white box or if it's because the river I've been swimming in has finally dried up, so I guess I'll just take a watering can and let everyone pretend it's okay. I'll put on a pair of sunglasses if it means avoiding the truth in your eyes because the gateway to my soul should be better guarded, after all who are you to look at me and look in me and pretend you understand what's going on? If I had a genie, I think I'd wish to wish that he could wish, because a genie surely thinks of better wishes having heard so many. But i don't really care what the Emancipator thinks because although he's trying to free the slaves he can't see that he's a slave to his own mind, unfree and chained to the prison warden's desk. Everyone has a pair of eyes that they've been putting on the floor, and I'm tired of people stepping on me and mine, I can't very well lift them without having my hand trampled on. Both of you stand with her and see how your height compares, I have some building to do. I'd rather not discuss the matter if you don't very well mind, but I keep running in hopes of running out of words.

Quote from: Dishonest Yesterdays of Nobody in ParticularYou spoke to me about your life
I wasn't really interested.
You seemed so damn mystified
By the stupid little things
Do you have a brain?

You recall how things used to be
I seem to remember differently.
Oh, but all was well,
You were happier then, surely
Is that what you think?

You keep mourning the death of this past
I hear it all the time.
If you keep this up
Surely you must see
You'll lose what you have left?

Quote from: Procrastinator's OathIt's not that I can't do the work
It's just so'"well, it's dull
I'll start in just a few minutes'"
Yeah, after this song is done

Okay, to work I go,
I've opened up the book
Put my name on the paper. . .
Time for a break
I think I'll make a snack
Is that Back to the Future on TV?
I'll finish after this movie'"
Oh, sweet, a marathon
I'll crack down in a couple hours

I'm kind of sleepy
No way to work
I'll just take a power nap. . .

Class is in two hours
Shit shit shit
Deep breath
Open the book'¦

And in fifteen minutes, I'm done.

Quote from: The Ballad of Bertrand and EmmelyneThe lonesome meadowlark perched on the branch of yew
Coos sweet mystic melodies to the Wandering Jew
Who, travelling to the village where tombstone sailors lie
Hopes to cast off his curse, hands groping at the sky
With rugged look and hat and coat stolen from the hole
And with the name of Gabriel sewn upon his soul
This tempter, this traveler, this diplomat of night
Consumed by phantom flames and hideous to sight
Is ready, so he thinks, to seize his life again
And so, in slumber's shadow, he fills his life with sin

Inside the slums of the village where he hopes to go
Sits Emmelyne, the lady with a heart that none can know
With scarlet hair and pouting lips, with rivers in her eyes
Emmelyne, eternal, wraps the winter 'round her thighs
For, though she loves not snowy banks nor memories of cold
The empty air can fill the void of the life she sold
When cast upon the daggers of daylight's crawling climb
Her voice is like a violin, her laughter is like chimes
The peasants of the village all shower her with presents
As Emmelyne declines them, her face becomes unpleasant

Bertrand Baker, born to Quakers, burns with heavy guilt
He stitches all his life into shining patchwork quilt
With pastel dreams of purity, of glory, and of lace
Bertrand is consumed with visions of a woman's grace
He knows her face, her sultry voice, her smile and her tongue
But her name is lost to him, the note that is unsung
On wintery nights, he holds his palms near the open flame
Imagining that she is near, her touch and breath untamed
Yet winds of loss and tides of truth steal this quiet rite
And Bertrand Baker shuffles off into the winter night

Upon the hill are those who preach, the morose gang of monks
Proponents of great zealotry, opponents of the drunks
Among their rank emerges one, their leader, Father John
Who treats the peasants ruthlessly and sells them for a song
With harvest gone and monks withdrawn, he settles for some grain
And gorges on the gifts and tithes shuttled from the plain
Those who hunger, those who thirst, the helpless flock of lambs
Are sacrifices for the success of God's unyielding plans
To Father John and to the monks, the world is nearly cleansed
And the monks are unaware of all the Father's sins

With guarded hate and harried gait comes Gabriel's approach
As a donkey hauls his cart, he seems beyond reproach
For though his painted face reveals a sinister design
He shares his oils and elixirs for a meager fine
And Emmelyne, with her hopes slung across her shoulder
Buys a potion, takes a drink, becoming even colder
Kaleidoscopes of memory slither down her spine
As snakelike people take her blood and paint a silver sign
Bertrand, walking to the square where Gabriel now stood,
Sees his love, pale Emmelyne, on a bench of wood

Noting that her river eyes are swirling, swelling, swallowed
He takes the potion from her hand and sees her soul is hollow
Grabbing Gabriel with force and thrusting him aside
He searches for the antidote to save sweet Emmelyne
Quietly escaping from the ruckus of the square,
Gabriel repaints his face and dyes his silver hair
Father John and his monks arrive to place the blame
And put to death Bertrand Baker by unholy flame
And as sweet Emmelyne awakes from her drugged state
Gabriel, now far away, laughs at Bertrand's fate.

Quote from: maybe botham I vulnerable
or am I venerable

are you caustic
or are you costly

are we haughty
or are we happy

Quote from: transciencestrap on a pair of wings
let's go fishing for
eternal happiness?

disassemble me
look at my clockwork chaos
and tell me you love me

i need to know
if you are cosmic
or if you are a dancer