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As Ludo turbo'd stage left, thanks to a faroff yank,
he was pulled into the shape of an Egyptian ankh,
& even tho' holding hands w/ a fly was rather gank.

Eloise instinctively grabbed a mitt
(well aware flies' limbs are oft-caked  in bits
of **** & garbage goop, but as a tomboy, it

was 2nd nature to throw hygiene to the wind).
Whilst Weeze skitched ride on  new muscid friend,    
Ludo joked, 'We're like Jan Van Dyne & Henry Pym!'

But this wasn't occasion for comicbook references
when chessboard cord schlepped 1 of his appendages
w/ swiftity of hurricane giving wedgies,

Eloise hung on for dear life (& life can be pretty dear
- why, there's nippers born in hock to their stork shippers).
If earth-intimate as  Amerindian's ear,

were your eyes, you would discern
teeny track thru Emeralds' garden Weeze's crocs had burned,
Fuschia swisscheesed slip-ons ploughed thru loden

moss & emerald swarth microfurrow not dissimilar
to 1 upon Ludo's brow as he beheld his immediate future:
'Uhrm, oi Red, do you feel a little like a water-skier?'

'Why, Ludo, now you mention it, I guess I do. Whatever's at
other end of Sillitoe anklebinder's the towboat
& my towrope's, well, you!'
'I'm glad you think that,

coz we're about to get a tad wet!' the fly warned.
Slapheading breeze tousling her red bangs,
Weeze craned
her neck: in front outstretched the Emeralds' pond.

She braced herself for the ker-splooshdown,
- KERSPLOOP! Eloise was towed across brown
H2ewww of pond Mr.Emerald never quite got quite around

to de-silting w/ the spiffy electric pump
still sitting in its box in his shed.
'Ranga runt,'
wake up!' Fresh insult exhorting her to 'JUMP!',

she lent forward instead, her forward motion too rapid
to leap. Hopping from leg to leg  in panic, until a wee leaf
was slid
beneath her crocs by Ludo. Eloise waterskiied                    

'pon impromptu slalomboard for sum total of 3 seconds,
when abruptly draughtboard dragline's tow lessened,
dunking Weeze's doughty chin into dug in cauldron

of pondscum & reeds clawing like zombies.
Fumbling for 'fiddlesticks', 'Oh... violintwigs!'  what Eloise
cursed just as genteely. Ludo's leaf ski, lifepreserving debris

such as sailors hug when ship's in Atlantean port.
'God must be Lord of The Flies, withholding wings from
ranga runts,'
philosoflyed Ludo, for tho' checkpatterned lariat

still looped his limb, he could hover no bovver now
there was a lull
in the invisible impetus that had hauled
them both into the Emeralds' pondwaters far from crystal.

'Look, Ludo, you've got enough of them, so why not
gimme a hand?'
He airlifted her back atop the leaf,any chivalry canned  
by snide mumble on why she was so heavy, milligrammed

by miniaturising shazam of shrinking rap 5
looooong minutes ago.
On leafraft she squatted, forlorn upon  pond once
deemed shallow,
when, like a waterboatman, limp likeness for Ludo

idled by w/ Dead Sea-style defiance of the depths.
'Don't cry, pink & orange fly!' the fly floating by said.
'It could be worse, you could be like me - stone blummy dead!'

Ludo himself still trod air like junior helicopter,
white & black-squared shackle drooping slack upon
pondwaters
& winding over overgrown horizon. Newcomer

introduced himself to Eloise:
'Name's Dodo, if you please,
pink & orange femme fly! Well, I was once, but my
demise
has w/ rotten indecent haste already arrived!'

Yez, woe is me, humble dead fly bobbing on the Brown Sea!
yez, a humble, feted philarthropodist, whose mummy
fussed w/ buzz of favoritizzzm to maggot me upon her knee!

Yez, humble, most lovable larva Death 's jaws hath squished,
as if lightening pinched by Myagi's chopsticks pedagogic.
Except it's ling...ger...ring end, tragic tracheae flooding
                                                          w/ fluick...

Yez , alas am I, peach damsel fly! Hey, you're
not my dear mum
in a vision, are you? Your hair's different. So is your face.
But come
closer, plant a smacker on your son, as to the Grim Swatter he doth
succumb!'

'Firstly, Dodo, I'm not your mum - I'm not even a fly! Secondly,
you're quite the yapperbox for a bucket bug, frankly,
even for one w/ far still to fly to great dogturd in the sky!'

Thus did she set straight the fakely fey fly,  but Weeze did wonder
as whimsical aside, if God even owned a dog - was the G'reaper
God's rotty or staf? Did his nametag read 'Grover'?
Poochy ponder  

could not long withstand incessant bombination    
of Ludo & Dodo in stereo. 'Yez, I've got 5 feet in
the grave, Mama Mosca...' Morbid muscid bellyaching

of Dodo's seemed more apropos when out of this scamp
of a swamp that passed for a pond, notwithstanding a cramp
he crochetted about, upkicked a leg w/ amaranth

pink hobble, like a freshly ironed earthworm wrapped
'round one
of his sextuple ankles.Elosie despaired: 'Oh, not another one!'
Anchored by his own silky legiron, flitterbugging for fun

above pondscum, Ludo took mickey outta Dodo's sticky
predicky:
'Mwahahaha, that's Cribbage's tongue! Most froggies'
tongues are flicky,
but he fly-fishes with his, reels them in, does Ol' Cribby!

You're gonna live up to your name now, Dodo, you dumdum!'
Ommatea welled up, diddly discoballs w/ lachrymation,
tho' before Dodo's dolourous dewdrips had minutely swollen

the pond, Ludo's own fetter tensed,
horseflypower revved at remote end
again. Weeze cogged this was, for Dodo, a godsend,

not  the God' s dog's end.
'Buckle your seatbelt!' she urged then gripped
waterbabe fly w/ right, flyboy fly w/ left mitt,
but as full pull heaved trio skyward, it craned the, erm,
   cranium
of Cribbage!
http://chirpydirges.co.uk/weeze-2/
Introducing an ickle intellectual,
a firehearted, foxhaired tomboy geek called
Miss Eloise Agatha Emerald.

Who's sharp as a button, who's bright as a whip
(a button sharpened upon flint of print,
& fairylights 'round such a whip would twist)!

So Weeze Emerald whiled away summer hols,
reading loony tome by a man named Carroll
Mrs.Emerald bought from a shop called Jarrolds.  

Dumbing up on a smartphone the modern joy,
but imagination Eloise's neverending toy,
tho' she didn't dream up the chipmunkish 'Oi'

interrupting her reading in the garden.
She put down her book and begged the pardon
of indeterminate orator th'Oi had come from.

She searched side to side, her red bob flicked;
she looked under her ***, her red bangs dipped;
she shook her red head - did she daydream  it?          

'Oi, Orange Bonce, giantess, over here!
Atop the 5th daisy to your left, my dear,'
squeaky cheeky buzz buzzed somewhere near.

Eloise Emerald had a snout about
- 1 daisy, 2 daisy, 5 flowers the count
whereupon she spied source of the mouth.

Highpitched purr far from chippurr
the chipmunkish hum of gauzy-wing-flapper,
uncommon bluebottle showing little stiff upper    

proboscis.
Who'd Oi'd Eloise at top of his 'Oice
sported tiddlywink shields over his joints
& did stew as blue as a ballpoint,            

black as a biro, on daisy 5 dancing vexed
(if an ant didn't span one of his legs,
& if he wore pants, most impudent insect

in 'em would 'ave angsty ants.
                           Natural Brownie,
it displeased Weeze to witness
fellow lifeform frowny,
so w/ bookmark she bimbled, then put down her copy

of 'Alice' on the staining grass,  at her place ajar anyway.
' Now, Mr. Fly, all atizz you buzz! Are you, yunno, okay?'
- coz you're mad as monkeybats her rolled eyes
                                                                           conveyed.

'Well, duh! Were I acting out an inner glow,  
would I oi for assist from ****** giantess? No,
so seeing that I have no chOIce...
How do you do, I'm Ludo!'

'There's no need to be uncouth, Ludo the Fly,
Eloise A. Emerald at your service, but I
advise you buzz w/ decorum should you seek an ally.'  

But Eloise A.Emerald didn't hold grudges
(anymore than she'd wear hair up
in foxtail bunches)
& tho' mucky flies strode upon her school lunches,

forthcoming her aid  for new housefly homie,
whose latticed eyes bulged w/ rare mute 'holy-moly'
for thanks.
Ludo's lament: 'O no more to flit free

upon summer breeze from dogpoop to fruitbowl
about my buzziness, for I've stepped in this tangle...'
- he gestured to chequered fetter about his ankle.      

'I's grounded by this strand from who-knows-where,
thread of black 'n' white-squared gungey gossamer.'
'Woz ye not,' Eloise consoled, 'I'll yank it offa yer!'

'Up your nelly, ****** giantess! Dem galumph-
ing thumbs will pluck off one of my limbs
before the squillion vermillion honeycoombs

of my compound eyes bawled w/ 1 wince.
No, p'haps
bookworm like you can better flex her thinking cap
at close quarters. Can you sing a shrinking rap?'

He instructed Eloise to repeat after him:
' Yoyoyo! If you wanna get down
where the grass ain't strimmed,
do da kreepykrawly krump wit' no need to squinge;

if you want da title of 'Titch'  in Lilliput,
if you wanna measure up to underfoot,
gotta spit dis shrinking rap and shake your, er, boot!'

As he rapped, Ludo busted out some breakdancing moves
only 6 legs could really pull off. Eloise mused
it was prolly a good job she hadn't ripped 1 of them loose,

echolaling along to resizing rap craptacular.
' If you wanna hi-5, erm, hi-40 a spider;
get stuffed on single sweetcorn kernel for supper;

if you wanna bants with a Borrower, 'Fanx for the lend,
but I fear your cargopants won't fit me, my friend',
sing Ludo's shrinking rap right thru to da end!

Deez dinkifying rhymes, repeat to go to
a destination w/ a stunning worm's eyeview!
****** giantess, now Thumbelina No.2 !'

At shrinking rap's finale (phew!), Eloise
shuddered w/ migraine of submolecular squeeze.
There was nauseous flash, then g-force of more Gs

than Mr. & Mrs.G & their large family in every seat
of rollercoaster whose carnie controller fell asleep,
save it was reverse g-force for her mass decreased.

As did her height, from current stature aged 11
to shorty she was at 7, pipsqueak at 6,
pipsqueakier even
at 6 months, to once-upon-a-bun-in-Mrs.Emerald's-oven,                    
  
til­l, sultanasize, her meagrements matched the flyrical fly's.
Unkempt green blades now bowed high
above her red head. Weeze saw red too, no way would she occupy

the bottom of the bottom of the garden forever,
facedown 'Alice' unfinished if its spine-ridge were shelter!  
'Ludo,' she grrred, 'I'll pluck that leg off now, GRRR!'

'Ah c'mon, ****** Gian...  oh riiiiiight, I need to come up
with some new materi...'ELP!!!!!!!!'  
Before Weeze got more bugged,
                                 Ludo was dragged off
                                 when legature on his lig,
I mean ligature on his leg, was dealt                     distant tug.
Illustrated version: http://chirpydirges.co.uk/eloise-1/
Behind a burkini may be une beurette rebelle.
Behind a personality, it can be pus 'n' hell icky.
Behind the deathtolls, bodycounts, registers
of the deceased, mortuary rolls & bills of mortality,
rolls of honour & collateraldamage,
casualtybureaus, obitcolumns & necrologues,
the humancost
is an Eichmann ethereal on God's Microsoft Excel,
w/  S.S.-ence expunged to save his skills
- coz who needs necronomic numbercrunchin' done
more than Death's boss?

Behind paintball Hungerford of my 1,000 punditties,
read 'impotent paintbrush'.
& behind the bitchoholic in yr bonnet, behind the slew
of shrewish rebukes, behind your throbbingtemplevein
is a pulsating pang of stagnant contempt for this
*** of sehnsucht zozimus you neverdreamt of.
yours truly the more tooly the more I embod
your unmet farfrom radfem yen
for a cuddle unquibbling, one not
diswhatwasthatstractedly stog-bandard,
just coz your offer's acataglottal.

Blokes may be emotionally niggardly
because nice styes finish last.
beurettes rebelles = French **** featuring Franco-Arab actresses in Islamic niqabs/burkas

zozimus =  Roald Dahl neologism, 'the fabric of dreams'
Jacob Resendez Dec 2014
Hello, darling,
I see your coat is ready
To be put back up on the rack
I decided to marry you
And now I know why.

Tired, darling?
I want to make dinner for you,
A wine and dine for the two of us
I hate to see you this tired
After a long day.

What is it, darling?
I know there's something on your chest
So please, get it off for me
Were we made for each other
For you to break this news to me?

Okay, darling,
I'll fix some supper
This leg of lamb could fit you nice
Swung into the air with my hands
And onto the back of your head.

All right.
So I've killed him.
This poem is entirely inspired by "Lamb to the Slaughter" by Roald Dahl. It is not a true story.

— The End —