Poetry Battle: Jeckyll. vs. Esco 3000

Jeckyll.

A paranoid android looks on.
Marred by pins and needles, scarred
By the ins and the outs of your life.
I’m sewing myself together again,
Tear by tear, and thread by thread -
Until I have a patchwork, unbound by
Devotion!

Hell’s kitchen –
A bowl full of clockwork oranges,
And mechanical apples.
Cogs grinding in my dome,
A drawer full of silver spoons.
A drawl full of empty beer bottles and
Full moons. Crescented crescendos of
Light, with six octaves of clarity.

Cyborgs partake in lavish cybersex with
Swedish prostitutes,
It’s all invigorating masturbation to
The onlooker, or to the purveyor.
The slayer of dragons, he is aroused,
He cannot help himself -
Saint George, he is a pervert, of the
Worst kind.
The lines, of kings and queens by their
Thrones, holding hands, igniting candles.
The canvas is muddy,
Turner and Shakespeare look on in horror.
Chaucer turns in his grave
(But in his grace, he turns away).
The ancient reams of my country’s history -
Are falling apart.
The book is being eaten by mites;
The mites are gathering an army
It would seem. Insurmountable they are,
Deadly.

...

Now I am looking in, on a windowless chapel.
All boarded up,
And with my narcotic-stained arteries,
I trip out.
The congregation seek out the dusty man,
The one with the white beard.
The priest holds his hands aloft and raises
The people’s hopes.
Define hope - is it in some way parallel to debt?
Set’s servants and serpents are crawling
In the desert, my skin is crawling with them!
My kin is crawling with my skin, into shadow.
Shadow is falling over the mortal plains;
It is plain.
And I am pained - I am so pained.

The congregation are standing now,
They lift their stiffened faces.
In walks their god.
And they exclaim,
In their excitement –
“Speak of the Devil!”

And it's all like a punchline,
to a bad, bad joke.
I vomit quietly in a corner,
Repulsed at the sight of so
many grinning human skulls.



vs.



Esco 3000

At Dusk upon the crusted slopes of Mount Olympus, 3 great armies engage in combat, Poets, Actions, and Thoughts collide in a war waged for dominance. Heaven's soldiers of thought clash with the opposing soldiers of Hell's Actions, and the Literati. I fight for Poetry...


Poetry, the plane separating actions and thoughts
Earth wedged between yielding dreams and Elysian Fields
The battleground is south of heaven, but on incline from Hell
Writers fully clad in consonance, armed with alliteration
fending off mindthirsty mercenaries of thought, gripping wind staffs
in mass genocide against the other sides, sinful actions beckon death
wordsmiths keep words unsheathed to defeat the opposing forces
mountains of scripture soldiers laid by the wayside, succumbing to thought
ideas off-spring our army, claiming our lives
uninspired to write, they enlist our soldiers, swaying the fight
but many more fall casualty to acting upon sins
leaving a page, to speak, hear, and see evils
none of these chains bind the glorious warriors of written word
the fog of war falls over the battleground, but our army holds perception
hell learned lessons through experience, we script it, they live it
thought's soldiers are weary, unsure of either, blinded by haze
taking shots in the dark and occasionally striking a page
the gnashing of teeth and thrashing of souls holds hell in the lead
satanic soldiers with cold hearts smother the hope of poets
they convert our fighters to dissent their duties and abdicate the war of art
i swing my great axe of ink without a chink in my armor
harm befalls all in my range, i witness winged angels' bows striking actions
fear of advancing an idea has heaven attacking Lucifer's troops
the tides of change crash along the rock shore, blood soaking the ground
the winged minions of God begin conversions of faith
taking side with this army of arched authors, slinging quills at opposition
placing verse to their wildest fantasies, the dynamic is shifting
as anguished writers abandon the struggle and act upon lyric
fear hits the heart of my fellow scribes, we've gained and lost
great warriors like Langston have given way to a path of activism
and the poets who are active Christians begin to see action as not that bad
our shining shields of paper and pads begin to crumble
the frontlines backed up to the crimson ocean of angels' corpses
and hell's minstrels push forward executing poetry in motion
i look around among my comrades that have been claimed victim
i pick up the flag of free speech and it flaps in the breeze
a wind created by the putrid breath of the Infs' onslaught
born is a verse of the second coming, my pen produces apocalypse
i feel there ain't no stoppin the awesome force of scripture
Hell was raised and my savior activated decline
however at dawn along the shore the Son of the Mourning is risen
suspended in wonder, war is waged, fear pierces my pupils
our front lines have been breached by the rebels, my messiah turns
braces himself for the final battle and says to me "Speak of the devil.."
1luv.