Sanskrit poet's game

Just been reading an essay by Ron Padgett in which he talks about a Sanskrit poet's game in which poets supply each other with last lines rather than first lines. So, if the line provided was 'you are not green stink', the next person might write a poem that read

you are yellow smell
you are not pink fragrance
you are blue odour
you are not green stink

The object is to provide a last line that's as difficult as possible to get to.

So - each player here responds to the previous player's suggested last line with a new poem, then suggests a new last line for the next player.
Let's see if anyone's game. Here's a last line:

I saw then that architecture was not telephony

I travelled a thousand lands, for years i walked
and saw many buildings and Landscapes
many phonelines i also saw lain across these lands
I saw then that architecure was not telephony.

hmm tis very lame but i felt like having a go, heres my line:

The wastepaper basket soon looked up.

Careless I mutter on paper those lines
Unsatisfied with growing tension and ink
All and all into the garbage with sighs,
The wastepaper basket soon looked up

Try this one:

The graven flame was indistinguishable to a camel

In the desert, where some little flames were nothing special
One very small one held a sacred position at the temple
And truly tiny, burning faintly at the end of a candle,
The graven flame was indistinguishable to a camel

OK, here's another

The worms were becoming cardigans

James Brudenell did lead a troop
Whose calvary in Crimean lands
Eponymed those writhing soldiers group and,
The worms were becoming cardigan's

I couldn't resist making it possesive so don't even count this.

But if you do try this:

Leading Sanskrit's dialectic Ama-gi

Cheat! Oh wait. I see you're carrying your...poetic license. That's fine then.

I must express my suspicion, however, that the word you meant in your line is 'dialect' (a regional variant on a language) rather than dialectic (a form of argument). Am I right?

Nope, I meant what is there, good luck! ( We are supposed to make it difficult right?)

Aargh......

This argument can be described
as a Japanese town
one in which the simple geometries
of the old wood houses
open to the outside with
nary a discernible division
but in their fragility
and inherent insubstantiality
that is conceptual
a refusal of simple opposition
they are being opposed
and losing
to the flat impersonality
of history without progress
Glazed grey bricks and
concrete obliterating
rather than communicating
with a dead language.
Dad, you don't play fair.
Your language does kill
Demolishing ambiguity
Demolishing the past
Demolishing language
So that you seem to be
Leading Sanskrit's dialectic Ama-gi

Hey. Thanks, I needed that. OK, here's another:

Distaff plunges kleptocrat drain and they all go home to crystal mothers

Fate is more spun by memory
Life unhung through policy
Counting leveled premises and hardened carbon in our caves
"Got it tot" in both these aims and still one in the same
What other misery among another
For there is no honor amongst themselves

Clotho sits and weaves this shape though
Forming faith and place uprist
For those who placate sacred brothers
Are consequently--built by her list
Shapely graven by her hands
Working under bloody plans
Overburdened coutless sand
All and all shaped clay to man
From gold to iron bronze and cold
Light to dark and new to old
Sophic destined finger told
To create, create! the darkest mold
Poor and feeble woman, poor and slight of sight
Tired--careful lady, on her cane she sleeps at night
Pouring to that forming cauldron all her spite and pain
Stirring through those anguished fishes silent by the cane
Forcing every ounce of pallor fate into the shape
Of this and that and other men for his tyrranic plate
Leaning on that symboled staff watching metal mesh together
Distaff plunges, kleptocrat drain and they all go home to crystal mothers

Hahahaha that was great! I had to study a bit for that one. Try this out:


If careful and inspired, maybe zenith's would be lyre, would attempt to quell the fire?

My head hurts. But I'll be back.

On the morrow

Unmindful and quite tired, over at denise zenith's one day, I let my eyebrows catch on fire
Denise was out at choir at the time, and just as I couldn't always follow the rhyme (or meter)
I couldn't get the water to work (durned tap wasn't turning), but all the while my head was burning
I was reluctant to try the freezer (I'm a legendary, almost dangerous sneezer), but
Inside was an ice sculpture, a lyre pretty as a picture, a frozen monument to culture(etc.)
And as art has always been a balm to breasts and brows bereft of calm, thought, y' know,
If careful and inspired, maybe zenith's would be lyre, would attempt to quell the fire?

Phew. OK, sorry for the delay. Now try:

at this point, shipwrecked, the keystones appealed to Sennett for clemency

Mack turned slowly to Charlie as they sped through the monolith
This abstraction of cognito became the difference between them
Contracting as they finished past, the rocks were far dismayed
For the pair was off to flee the wrath of the Keystone Kops parray
Farther and farther off as Chaplin knew the way
But Sennet bit his finger nails and ate lemon meringue

Stormblast came and he was laughing along
He chased with flap of Kops, and moved us far and long
With slipping toes and pouring rain
As gest pursued with small bellow
Would tread the glances high and low
To far forward hang off beds
The clash rang fast and the ship went passed
The Kops we thought were dead

And so we came upon a beach, but never could we find
A place to park and so we crashed into that shallow slime
But the Koppers came about that isle and chased us round and round
We stopped and hid among the leaves to shiver under sound
And then animals would come to see and wither Police free
From their trousers, as they stopped belief in God on that far reef
We about, about, and came from out our silent secrecy
at this point, shipwrecked the Keystones appealed to Sennet for Clemency

Sorry for the delay, and shallow attempt but I am a bit intoxicated at the moment.

Try this:

as Apollo held Abaris' throat, Osiris conceded to Agni

You lose it a bit in the last strophe with all the forced rhyming, but the beginning is damn bloody brilliant. Please consider struggling on and making a real piece out of this.

More to follow.