Gamegirladvance (which in a fit of radical politics presents its name in image-logo form as "game+girl=advance) has a fairly positive review of Blue Wizard is about to Die, the book compiling poetry about video games. I'm not linking the site for BWisatD, because the extracts there are in PDF form, which is obnoxious and crashes in my firebird .6. I hate PDF. Anyway, I read (more accurately, skimmed over) the Joust poem there, and found it severely wanting. So, in order to lay down the smack, superelectric proudly presents its own definitive statement on Joust in verse form. Enjoy.
Joust is Gay
FWAP! FWAP! FWAP!
get it up
FWAP! FWAP! FWAP!
come on
FWAP! FWAP! FWAP!
gotta burst those eggs, can't have any little dudes running around
what do you call those pole things the guys poke each other with anyway?
FWAP! FWAP! FWAP!
Dude, that fucking bird's here, don't touch it!
fucking pit full of hot lava
FWAP! FWAP! FWAP!
everybody dies, but how many men
leave their initials in white phosphorescence?
which is the persistent emission of light following exposure to and removal of incident radiation
FWAP! FWAP! FWAP!
You should have just sent me an email about PDF's; I hate them too (I had to use them because the book is illustrated... the new versions will reflect that. I'll update the site with text as well). Here's the poem about Joust from the book in it's entirety. Hope you enjoy.
JOUST:
i don’t think there is much doubt that riding an ostrich
is pretty gay, especially when done as some part of a
renaissance festival gone
horribly
horribly
wrong;
but gliding on those wings, those feeble orange and yellow wings,
in the caverns and crumbling ledges in the torchlight
fighting those frantic feathered foes,
assaulting each other with such great speed that,
after a certain level,
it was impossible to tell what was happening;
the whole thing degenerating into a mad
pixelized scramble of swirling color,
everything a frantic clutching dash;
a final assault, with no room for mistakes,
just the frantic tapping of the big red button, trying to gain leverage
just one more… one more and
knocked off, the black knight approaches.
The Time Keeper; the killer of the incompetent
in the early levels, appearing now as
the executioner of those who have played
for far too long,
showing up like the game company’s
personal hit-man, sent to take you out;
“time for this one to make room for the
other kiddies; get them hooked as well...”
(no wonder Tron was such a hit;
back in those days, the MCP
really did exist,
a corporate entity composed
of game company built-in
configurability merged with
greedy arcade owners)
so, it all comes to this, you,
on your ass, feebly fumbling for
the lance; where the fuck is that bird?
not in the lava? not possible... (stunned, killed so many...
failed to notice the gray hand of the lava troll
claiming your trusted steed, dragging it
down into the magma soup; bird screams echoing
off the walls…)
it seems such a waste:
everyone dead; insanity! for whom do they fight?
what feudal lord is supposed to be
sitting in your position, on the other side of the screen?
the clicking hooves of the black knight’s
demon ostrich bang like gavels on your guts
as he canters slowly towards you,
with those fucked up white eyes,
like something totally alien lives behind the shell of his human form,
his blue silhouette;
he says nothing... does nothing to acknowledge
the exceptional circumstances surrounding his summoning...
does not even remark about your high score;
the highest he’s ever seen...
none of it matters to this kill switch;
and, in a fit of madness in which the
crude system of significances of the game
take hold of the player,
after hours of struggling, during this single game,
hours of battling winged enemy after enemy,
scrambling across the disintegrating cave floor
screaming, close calls too many to count,
from this combat weariness... this war-hardening,
the player is somehow magically conjoined
with the character he controls; for the first time
the consequences of his actions are written out
in a flash; the gibbering boggle of the game
is set down and put to reason, like a memoir,
in that exceptional instant
the user sees himself in the soul of the code...
part of the program in every sense.
it is for this reason that the dismounted player
does not move, makes no attempt to flee
from the otherworldly demon that now approaches him;
each step seems to whisper “this is how they all end, eventually”
there’s no use;
the transfigured player
watches as his character, exhausted from the battle,
heaving, on one arm, legs splayed beneath him,
the lance just inches out of reach,
becomes suddenly calm
and prepares himself for the death blow
by smiling like he’s seeing all the dreams in heaven
even as he’s executed in this volcanic hell:
for he knows that others have never come so far
and his name will live on for months to come
singing of his valiant accomplishments
whenever the scoreboard flashes his initials
right there at the top
five seconds at a time.
You guys need to get laid.
Posted by: Tex on January 10, 2004 11:03 PM