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Getbig Main Boards => Gossip & Opinions => Topic started by: ToxicAvenger on January 22, 2007, 12:30:27 PM
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SQUATS
Here is not where men and boys are separated
but where the ordinary becomes audacious,
where summer storms turn into tornadoes.. And if we talk
in terms of weather, then this is the weightlifter’s hurricane,
quads and calves like turbulent gusts of muscle whipped
around the eye of the knee.
You step up to the rack, square off facing a cracked plaster wall
or a mirror hung there to display what will soon be
your face in a grimace of agony.
Grip the bar, lean into it, bend the neck till the head
slips under and you feel the cold steel across your shoulders.
Dig in beneath the weight, measure each breath, straighten slowly
as you lift it off the rack; step back, stand for a moment
to ensure the bar’s securely balanced. Now squat.
Each quad fills with a rush of blood then swells as you start to stand.
Straight up, back tight, head and neck stiff, as if
you were skewered through form heel to forehead, the rump
like a linchpin to control the flow of motion;
down again, then up, your butt
the hub upon which the hips ride, cycling
each rise and dip, knees wrapped tightly to avoid a buckle.
When each thigh is painfully inflamed
the warm-up ends and the work gets real.
You’ve crossed a border from civil inhibition
to a frontier of fear where your sequestered animals
feast on your deep silent secrets.
Up and down in maddening dance,
each repetition pulling you farther form the edge
of that frontier you are now swooping through
like a crazed hawk, flashing and slashing around
sheared cliffs glazed with the blades of a midday sun.
A gust of wind, as if form great wings beating, and you’re lifted
above some steep face of rock, sweeping the sky like a blare
sent up form fields resembling golden sponges.
You’ve crashed the gate, slipped silently through
some dark portal where you hear your own breathing, though
somehow you know you’re not in control. You’re unconscious
but you’re still squatting.
it ws published in flex mag a looong time ago..
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Sorry Toxie. Still gaddawful. Just a brutal mangling of the poetic form and terrible choice
of words about a very obscure activity. :-\
/even walt whitman would cringe and he loved the muscle boys ;)
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worst poem ive ever read. if i hear about one more fat fuck praising the squat i dont know what to do
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SQUATS
Here is not where men and boys are separated
but where the ordinary becomes audacious,
where summer storms turn into tornadoes.. And if we talk
in terms of weather, then this is the weightlifter’s hurricane,
quads and calves like turbulent gusts of muscle whipped
around the eye of the knee.
You step up to the rack, square off facing a cracked plaster wall
or a mirror hung there to display what will soon be
your face in a grimace of agony.
Grip the bar, lean into it, bend the neck till the head
slips under and you feel the cold steel across your shoulders.
Dig in beneath the weight, measure each breath, straighten slowly
as you lift it off the rack; step back, stand for a moment
to ensure the bar’s securely balanced. Now squat.
Each quad fills with a rush of blood then swells as you start to stand.
Straight up, back tight, head and neck stiff, as if
you were skewered through form heel to forehead, the rump
like a linchpin to control the flow of motion;
down again, then up, your butt
the hub upon which the hips ride, cycling
each rise and dip, knees wrapped tightly to avoid a buckle.
When each thigh is painfully inflamed
the warm-up ends and the work gets real.
You’ve crossed a border from civil inhibition
to a frontier of fear where your sequestered animals
feast on your deep silent secrets.
Up and down in maddening dance,
each repetition pulling you farther form the edge
of that frontier you are now swooping through
like a crazed hawk, flashing and slashing around
sheared cliffs glazed with the blades of a midday sun.
A gust of wind, as if form great wings beating, and you’re lifted
above some steep face of rock, sweeping the sky like a blare
sent up form fields resembling golden sponges.
You’ve crashed the gate, slipped silently through
some dark portal where you hear your own breathing, though
somehow you know you’re not in control. You’re unconscious
but you’re still squatting.
that's what this piece of crap is...gay. 140 pound fag who comes to the gym and gets excited watching guys squat. pathetic trying to justify his raging homosexuality through a poem...
gayer than pink skittles
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that's what this piece of crap is...gay. 140 pound fag who comes to the gym and gets excited watching guys squat. pathetic trying to justify his raging homosexuality through a poem...
gayer than pink skittles
Sounds just like ToxicAvenger. A fitting poem for a burqa wearing douche bag of his caliber. ;)
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Sounds just like ToxicAvenger. A fitting poem for a burqa wearing douche bag of his caliber. ;)
hahaha
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Sounds just like ToxicAvenger. A fitting poem for a burqa wearing douche bag of his caliber. ;)
sorry mate..if i actually post some wilde or dickenson..
you wouldn't get it.. :-\
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sorry mate..if i actually post some wilde or dickenson..
you wouldn't get it.. :-\
Is there where you drop some line about your bullshit Cambridge education or how rough you had it growing up in Burqaland? ::)
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Nice poem this really shows who actually takes their training seriously in their response to the poem. Im not suprised with Bluto's response LOL.
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Nice poem this really shows who actually takes their training seriously in their response to the poem. Im not suprised with Bluto's response LOL.
from someone like me who done my share of real hard sports in life, it takes a lot more to make me impressed than some fat schmoe doing squats and thinking he's the king of the world...
fact is, weight lifting isnt that big a deal, some likes to think it is.
i dont see greco roman wrestlers making poems about their training. or marathon runners. or cyclists who just finished tour de france.
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ah its all good..i rememberd it..and i posted it...
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from someone like me who done my share of real hard sports in life, it takes a lot more to make me impressed than some fat schmoe doing squats and thinking he's the king of the world...
fact is, weight lifting isnt that big a deal, some likes to think it is.
i dont see greco roman wrestlers making poems about their training. or marathon runners. or cyclists who just finished tour de france.
o ..gawd..stop fighting..
thought it ws something interesting..so i posted...
quit fighting >:( raises cortisol levels..
now dg pop a cytadren >:(
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from someone like me who done my share of real hard sports in life, it takes a lot more to make me impressed than some fat schmoe doing squats and thinking he's the king of the world...
fact is, weight lifting isnt that big a deal, some likes to think it is.
i dont see greco roman wrestlers making poems about their training. or marathon runners. or cyclists who just finished tour de france.
why would it be a fat schmoe?
haha weightlifting isn't a big deal oh you must just do bench press and bicep curls
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why would it be a fat schmoe?
haha weightlifting isn't a big deal oh you must just do bench press and bicep curls
it usually is. you tell me the big deal of weightlifting then. moving a weight from a to b.
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it usually is. you tell me the big deal of weightlifting then. moving a weight from a to b.
Im done I just remembered you don't believe in intensity lol I can only start to imagine the state of your legs...
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Is there where you drop some line about your bullshit Cambridge education or how rough you had it growing up in Burqaland? ::)
no..
why torture someone who is as bitter as you already :-\
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Im done I just remembered you don't believe in intensity lol I can only start to imagine the state of your legs...
funny i remember seeing a shitload of people training their legs through the years and not with a lot of intensity, yet they have big legs, why is that?
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I made a poem too:
Toxic avenger is gay.
Gay I say.
Gayer than a long day.