Alice and I were fudged fruiting inside Falstaffian freakish fleur–de–lys:
She inside a quack–aztec–tattooed tank,
Me inside a pendulous magenta harness with polydactyl–perverted plumes bespattered into it.  
In the ****** **** of that kaput flophouse
We creosoted our conks all the cockatrices of the gorge–de–pigeon,
Inside crotches, Jacuzzis and homocentric Action Men.  
Alice, with the pornographic bend sinisters in the teeth of her poltergeistish fajita crocodile,
Smacked of the plug–ugly poofter of a south–south–west by south sackful sandbank.  
I cemented the jaundiced dangler of an ostrich to my *****.  
With that and my uncut fiddlestick of knobs
I was the idiosyncratic and wholehogging sadomasochistic slapper!

We banged the bush streaming proboscis in tentacle
Through smorgasbords of hermaphrodites and high muck–a–mucks
While Ravi Shankar’s idioglossias and cockchafers juddered our titbits.  
Our Moonies were classically cracked flabelliform by the time we disinterred them.  
Alice managed to fornicate incognito white elephant on behalf of myself
And we were passionately on the back of the dingdong, naked as our Moonies.

We kept one’s pecker up wrapped up in the shadowgraph
Athwart ever-strangling girdles of formaldehyde, ozone, fomenter and widow’s weeds,
Athwart polytetrafluoroethylene–pricked precipices and then down to the butts
Where we both came to a sticky end on our jockstraps and leered at the ballet dancers
That we then penetrated rhythmically by elongating tumescent our gang banging tentacles.  
Through comfortable French knickers I burped, “Thank you for ****** me everywhere, Alice”.  
In the soporific honeypotspunk, aped on the ooze,
I could smell that her **** had made her ******* type soap flakes break the sound barrier,
Splashing out a ***** whale seed skirting her jowls.  
“You’re fragrant, flypaper”, she rapped.

The Government gabble that little green men who hammer out the sexagenarians weren’t on board.  
Inside spleen of the spliffs, inside spleen of my gangrenous Pollyanna, I will over one’s dead body evacuate.  
I will over one’s dead body evacuate.

there's no point writing out what poetry is... if you don't actually write it.*

a whiskey prior noon,
too soon, too soon,
too soon?
i'll be cooking a turkey curry later,
a whiskey prior noon,
too soon, too soon,
too soon?!

rhyme or rhythmic, perhaps the latter
in Dante's trinity of rhymes -
poetry of the near-illiterate,
who never read as much as could
have been -
thinking it out as origin and originals -
a man without influence is
not worth reciting -
                                   he'll still have to borrow
the life of a Henry VIII somehow,
whether he has or hasn't read a book
concerning the man -
while the Vatican emerges as the gossip
library of all the European royal families,
and indeed Henry VIII dubbed
Anne Boleyn's cow dangler *******
duckies - i think it's due to the fact
he quacked while he suckled the *******
like a pre-mature **** not producing ***** -
seriously, no milk;
and as honesty goes, ******* literature
does it for me, patron saint kenneth rexroth -
self-education moulds the self into a
pristine sequence of surprises -
there the pop of a balloon,
there the weeping clown...
there the giraffe on stilts!
indeed even at university entry point
where i deposited my self
i came back with debts!
idiotic treachery of teaching the politicised
version of language,
as language per se simply called grammatically
sound, in politics simply versed "correct";
two satans from Syria while Solomon
had his harem,
                          a third from Poland,
they say the holocaust,
6 million if not more citizens of the world
with polish passports - mind you
they took the Diogenes quote
into left and right parallel readied for a march -
Apollo listened then laughed at
the failures counting to 13 - laughing
while the words 'too the moon!' were eased
out from his helium filled lungs.

I. We have waited long enough.
There have been three opening acts,
All with various cats in possession of various tongues:
The cross-eyed Siamese, the blind Manx,
The one-eyed Persian,the Blue Forked Wonder,
The Antipodean Papilla Monster,the Twisted Golden
*** Licker,and the lynch mob's Dogwood Dangler.
Yet somehow they have all rolled into one,
A stale tumbleweed of hush.
We're all nervous as ghost town cliches accumulate...
Then she arrives...
The stagehands grab axes and hack the piano
Into kindling ...anticipating the glacier to come.

II. Her silence is best expressed by a necklace of ears,
(An heirloom from her father's failed jungle years),
That she wears along with diamonds
Atop her green-veined cleavage.
(Oh the banana leaves!)
It creates a vacuum as she sings
An anti-aria to our fat toothless quorum.
(We are all passengers on her great chest's heavings.)
We stomp bare feet and stub painted toes
Cackling into our sleeves between her gulps and sighs.
(Even the blackest,rarest of pearls would be
Mere condensation on her horrible *****,
That rising and falling quiet.)
Oh look how her mouth moves,
Like a goldfish gasping in the palm of one's hand,
Helpless and hoping to be swallowed.
Oh look how her mouth moves,
Like an empty eye socket blinking in sacred secret code...
How tired we all are now...so tired.

Our November Donkey
from The Sanctuary at
Liscarrol in County Cork,
is known for his walloper.

Dangler is his name, given
him by the resident Vet who
said he has never seen the
like of it.

In fact, it is so long that they
have had to manufacture a
set of four high rise platform
shoes, to keep it aloft.

In recent times, the word has
got out and The Sanctuary has
become a tourist Mecca just to
see Dangler wearing stilts.

              c  c
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              c  c