I'm not manly or crafty enough to man up
& be craftsman of TLC you deserve.
A ****-nician of THC, like a Zyklon bidet
my exsufflation shafts your nerves.
But O Dark Cow up the **** w/ me,
couldn't my pissy poesy be yr
yr mephistoffee poppy,
it's frowie faust flora & Daltonism's Rose?
These drab bayleavings are my horseshoe headgear
of Ishihara voyelles.
No reams o' mine boa-blent
so consummately to acoustics
of quinqcolour corolla
as Arthur's rainbow of assonance.
No: no arch archy branch
of prismatic natter natty as prisms;
no pipecleaner petals which festoonophone
photic rootlessness 'pon a chromatocrooned
circumflex; nor mostexquisite
spectrographicanalysis (of Phlegathonic rapids' gases)
curved w/ bootivicious elan along the rhyme-bough,
as if a beauty on a rack on rewind. No,
who it does not suit to be so dark,
not like satanicmillsheened,
collierycoated guidedogs of David Blunkett,
you're gonna havta slumit
in my 7th Tunket, where a rainbow is a lamebow,
& the poet's at pyrite bottom of his *** of gold.
Best I can do for you is:
a Jospeh's kaliedocoat hanging garden of flyover,
or God's technicolour handlebar tash
when the Sun came out for 'Pride'
(hi-viz fiesta for velvetferrets & chutneydrinkers,
& ****** Craddock & ****** Devito
&... Him? Her? Draggy tran
twin for botoxbutchered Kim Kardashian,
& Tran-ye West strumming a tranjo.
An' an am dram trans man
who used to be a woman in the wounded's white van,
wailing that she didn't wanna whannie).
Now, I'm cishet,
but as a poet,
it's often assumed, yunno,
I'm **** or atleast stye.
whannie = childhood East Anglian slang for vajajay, *******, ****, ****, ******, the pink bat's face.