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M-E Mar 8
He is a painter
who dreamed big
as The eiffel tower or
The statue of liberty
Descendant of The Monalisa and
The painter's self-portrait without a beard

He bought some paints and canvasses
but not some Aspirin
or Vicodin or anything
for the headach He had but
a frr.. a frrrr. That thing gave him
a homemade Advil-like pill, which it was
Fentanyl which is Morphine like only
its more like its a Hydrogen bomb
He slept but never woke up
to dream big, again

Not far from him
In a bar stool
in a beautiful town
with good people and
the same kind of ****** people
A beautiful lady, She was sitting
in that beautiful town, on a stool
when a charming prince facade
asked her for a ride
but before She decide, he offered her a drink
so She will not think he is a  tool
One drink, two drinks, maybe thirteen!!
Rohypnol inbetween
******* down
Think twice before
Lowering trust crown

Inspired:
I apologize if this is offensive by Deb Jones
When the dear donorcard bill's deliverance kills
& al-Keith McCamelton from Marakeshchester
inherits my corneas (I believe in unicorneas).

When I'm a recreational relic, comminuted & tooted,
chewed or voodoobied by a jejune hoochie *******
professional, Mama Shango - O that Mambo Sheena, she's a
ladydoctor of hooey! When my legbeforewicket bone a.k.a. shin,
not to menchin chin, grin, gelatin untoned (soamilar
to that o' Fatty Soames, who'll be quite a spread when
we eat the rich), & my fey ofay thighs
& my interthigh Fyffes (all fyffe inches), are finely ground
to a juju smeddum Mama Shango crumbles l/ homjom pollen
for a snirtle-haven even humdrum jumbies can't deaden.

When I'm a Uruguayan rugger teammate's
PTSDinner on an Andine ice plate.

When I'm past repulsive rasper, post-pulmonaryvascular massacre;
when I've given up my last gasp because I couldn't ever
make this gasper the last. When I've capitulated my Casper,
after gravel gurgle of my rale de la mort, after my outboardmotor
voicemail a la Monsieur Valdemar. When Alzheimer-
memorrhaging eulogists are ponderous & sotte voce,
as far removed as I at the time mine is up  
from the Fay Wrays, Screamin' Jays,
the rainbow rowdiness of orbling warbs & better days.

When I'm Senor Mucho Sueno, meeting Meesta
Mortimer Mortimer the missingmaker (this latter no
Gallup poll p'ruser, but that illimitable chooser
of every Ryan Otto Thyme from Calcutta to Corsica,
Kent to Lollapalooza). Whether gallbladder bleeders
or Gallipolosers, all of us were or will be absolosers
lapped like a catbowl by that mincemeat
mogul, Trim Reaper, jogging ahead to clock in
chisellaxed floruits where the hyphen's left hanging.  

When I'm dead as a coinop conversion,
depodiumed from 3initialled pantheon
of a special scartlead channel
for 8bitsprites' improbable kungfu,
by a hiscorewayman of the highest scorder,
Mombre's hombre & warriorthumbed wristola,
a lightening limpet on the d-pad
l/ Speedygonzalesterpiggot logrolling an e-dam home.
When I'm PK prey to this *******
of a flyingkickducker, some 'NewBieDie!'-greeting
PewDiePie-beating
finja-ninger l/  90s MooBiePie-
eating Arnold Schwarzensega of electronic yubiwaza,
Danny Curley. Jumplead cannulae in his Jabba The Shutt-in
bingo veins, Danny Curley foresees
w/ Pyrenese peerin' ease
my hadouken, counters w/ a shoryuken.
Game over. Fuqouken.

When I've gone beyond a shocking stroll
on a tumbledown terrain. When I'm jumbled
stoatskin unidentifiable remains.
When erstwhile strappingness is soil steroid,
gristle gift for the roses
'hind a urodorous hospice, when I'm lastminute
saprophytic herbal rohypnol for rose hipsters
(wifebeaters & musefloggers).
From a vulture's mulch blooms
damask artillery in the battle of the sexists,
botanical trope of blandishment
oftpictup w/ twenny Benson & Aspidistras
on a cancaining, Canaanwavy way home,
or requisitioned by a frugal doghouse ghoul
from gardens of engravings.

My carkedit plaque might caveat
'La vie was a lavvy but Eve was veal',
but Ms. Lilith Hewett,
she was sensual suet.
& my carkedit plaque might quote me that
'Life was ngandodowndilly wellingup for real',
yet fumiphant of  my crematory smignels
could divine Ms. Rosebud Bignold
16 again in a smile,  
in the cloud of my claripyre.
For when I'm husk past flames, hark the Sid James
squeal of my subcutaneous sizzling,
the memories of past glories haunter's quanta
among my charnel char, whithersoever it blows
once my urn's spurned.
In posthumous fernweh:
Nantucket, Hunstantucket, Saint-Tropez way?
Nah,the deadbody of a homebody
could not be more stuck in its ways.
For the dead are not so different to the living:
love makes us stay.

— The End —