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.

At the barren heart of midnight,
When the shadow shuts and opens
As the loud flames pulse and flutter,
I can hear a cistern leaking.

Dripping, dropping, in a rhythm,
Rough, unequal, half-melodious,
Like the measures aped from nature
In the infancy of music;

Like the buzzing of an insect,
Still, irrational, persistent . . .
I must listen, listen, listen
In a passion of attention;

Till it taps upon my heartstrings,
And my very life goes dripping,
Dropping, dripping, drip-drip-dropping,
In the drip-drop of the cistern.

There once was a shadow who thought he was a man,
He made his empty bed in a shame of familiars,
For years if not an eternity he never did one single thing,
He contemplated creativity in all its smoke and mirrors,
His only credo was padding his unknowing, limp ego,
Got a gig, speaking before a throng of other shadows,
He rewrote the crook about his own insignificances, suddenly
Nothing's became every things, all was sorely well in the bleak
Under toes.  Shadowman had found his stage, had rearranged
Chaos and insignificance to the point of no enlightenments,
No regrets.  What a sage!
Shadowman aped, traced, spewed in studied literature,
Experienced, faith, trust, fidelity, danced numbers,
In a cellophane pack with all the added extras included,
Found that reflecting words only got in his narcissistic way,
Left the California sun for the New York lowlands
Of the east, that only shine after the hurricane's
Deluge.  Shadowman has reams of flesh plastered
On a mall of wallowing sites only Shadowmen frequent,
Modern is the moly man who makes his own myth.
Shadowman has traveled to the great southern climes
Where hotels of shade tell tales of locals and enlightenment is in a drug
Called something South American or other?  A drug so smug it is a plug
For his dun holy soul.  Shadowman is only a silhouette of himself.
He freely gives seminars to the lame, chained to themselves freely,
Where all the vain echoes are chambered, embodied, entombed.

You see me and I see you,
we want to believe our actions are true.
By true, our own, but neither is,
we're all an imitation of what we've seen.

As trivial as a yawn so contagious,
or a popped knuckle that makes your insides itch
with the desire to follow suit daunting,
until the release of air and distress.

And as complicated as genetic code-- offspring following--
so naturally unnoticed like metered swallowing;
but like the mother ducks, who allievate stresses
of waters strong, we learn to cope from elders.

Whether it be innate or not,
had we not aped we'd be naught.
Forever we will remain children
who want another's toy 'til it's dropped.

The fire began in the cobbler’s shop
In a terrace of shops that day,
And spread right through to the milliners
That was owned by Mrs. Gray,
It leapt up into the rooftop beams
And galloped along the street,
Burning a swathe through the fodder stores
And the blacksmith, Simon Fleet.

The smoke rose into an Autumn sky
And blackened the old clock tower,
It didn’t pause, it was far too dry
For even an Autumn shower,
And Simon said, as the embers fell
To the household servant, Gert,
‘The courtyard’s starting to look like hell,
Get out of that silken skirt.’

He hadn’t looked twice at Gert before
And she was so awful shy,
While he was never the greatest catch
With his horseshoe-looking eye,
But once he saw that the embers fell
He was more than kept alert,
He knew the fabric would burn like hell,
The silk in the servant’s skirt.

She’d bought the skirt, it was second-hand
From a Drapers along the street,
It felt so silky and smooth, she’d said
From her waist down to her feet,
She liked the line of the skirt, the lads
Would see her pass, and stare,
So like the ladies she aped, she swore
To wear no underwear.

So Gert had blushed as she heard the words
Of the Blacksmith, Simon Fleet,
She wasn’t going to show her legs
To Simon, out in the street,
The skirt went up with a sudden roar
And he heard her pitiful cries,
So trying his best to douse the flames
He wrapped canvas round her thighs.

The blaze was stopped by the corner shop
Where the fire engine stayed,
And kept from running its rampant course
Along the Grand Parade,
But Simon said it was Gertie’s legs
That had failed her, in her pride,
But caught his eye with a tender sigh
As they fed the fire inside.

Whenever they speak of the shopfront fire
It’s as if it paved the way,
The two have said, to the day they wed
And their happiness today,
For Gertie doesn’t have charming looks
And he’s ugly too, says Gert,
But Simon says it’s a treat, that heat,
Under a silken skirt.

David Lewis Paget

.
There once was a shadow who thought he was a man,
He made his empty bed in a shame of familiars,
For years if not an eternity he never did one single thing,
He contemplated creativity in all its smoke and mirrors,
His only credo was padding his unknowing, limp ego,
Got a gig, speaking before a throng of other shadows,
He rewrote the crook about his own insignificances, suddenly
Nothing's became every things, all was sorely well in the bleak
Under toes.  Shadowman had found his stage, had rearranged
Chaos and insignificance to the point of no enlightenments,
No regrets.  What a sage!
Shadowman aped, traced, spewed in studied literature,
Experienced, faith, trust, fidelity, danced numbers,
In a cellophane pack with all the added extras included,
Found that reflecting words only got in his narcissistic way,
Left the California sun for the New York lowlands
Of the east, that only shine after the hurricane's
Deluge.  Shadowman has reams of flesh plastered
On a mall of wallowing sites only Shadowmen frequent,
Modern is the moly man who makes his own myth.
Shadowman has traveled to the great southern climes
Where hotels of shade tell tales of locals and enlightenment is in a drug
Called something South American or other?  A drug so smug it is a plug
For his dun holy soul.  Shadowman is only a silhouette of himself.
He freely gives seminars to the lame, chained to themselves freely,
Where all the vain echoes are chambered, embodied, entombed.

I invite you every-which-where, to hang with whoever, because, if "not-the-bother" came not-with, neither would have I. 

                                             [page 3] I invite you every-which-where,
                                              ­ to hang with whoever, because,
                                             if "not-the-bother" came, not-with,
                                               neither would-have-I.

I could show you that rock, I just found, and be sure you'd see the lion's-face in it, too, and if not, not so-say, as a saving throw (for my sanity). A welcomed throw, at that. But, merely, a prediction. An-[Dad just startled me, by design, kicking down my bedroom door. This wasn't left in as some song-for-sympathy, but a solid,  and tangible-manifesting of a shared assumption: that this planet won't pity us, even for an instant.]

Projected predictions probably-not-preferred. They aped me, in April, when I accidentally abandoned discretion, and made you [page 4] aware of my more-amorous intentions. [I made that too wordy, for my reached-for tone.] Regardless, I don't misread your messages, rather, I'm quite sure you've sent zero. Real appreciative of those rapid minutes, relived, wrapped-up in last April, that I got to hold you, and reel, and ring-in, your ear, right-next-to-it.

I know, it "isn't-like-that," But I hope it wasn't awkward. And that hug, that wasn't-awkward-hug, well, no, it wasn't weird for me, alsotooeither---it's always... just, a little-too-tough, to let go of you, leaving me. I can't even remember, the lie I allotted, to attempt an escape. From my outcry of "awkward hugs!" as I hid, you still made an anxiety, into an awesome-day. "Even-if," you wouldn't have-shown, [page 5] had today not been paid. And---wait, no, you know I don't mean-it-that-way. [I'm sorry. I think about you reading this, and my writing will ramble. Maybe, when re-written, post-forced-revision, and transcribed. Maybe I'll annex all these tiny annotations. Maybe I'll never regret the exhibition, if I never air-it-out.]
...

Harambe the inquisitive Self
Harambe the mangy dog
Harambe the broken Spirit
Harambe whose bones are my altar, scepter
Harambe who in his jailhouse did rock
Harambe whose name is communal labor
Harambe who stared into clear blank eyes and intuited the nature of the Soul
Harambe because Blake
Harambe because Hattie Carroll
Harambe because Truth in unintelligible letters, bleak
Harambe because ******* bullets pointed your way
Harambe because Et tu, Brute?

Harambe who constructed mental labyrinths out of paradise
Harambe who was half divine
Harambe who was half Man
Harambe who was full Anima Mundi
Harambe who was aped by the lollygagging necks and stiff roboticism of the masses
Harambe who was memed within an inch of his exhumed life
Harambe who was politicized
Harambe who was poeticized, needlessly

Harambe who stared down a Cincinnati sunrise just once upon arrival
Harambe who could not take it
Harambe who stayed inside all day
Harambe who was struck by the immensity of small broken objects (especially children)
Harambe who could not fathom my poetry, but wrote it all the same
Harambe who did not die in vain
Harambe whose voice will never taste his country
Harambe who no amount of ***** held out will return his stagnant soul to his body again

So I know it could be worse
My throat will be bleeding by next verse
I could hurt for a thousand years
Drowning myself in a ocean of tears

Slowly falling into a pitch black void
I could have left with you being mildly annoyed
Instead it was like my love was *****
The words don't come out so motions I aped

The sword that pierced my heart
Was a sword of lust

The sword that pierced my heart
Was a sword of lust

I reach into my skin
Pull out nothing and proceed to sin
I am nothing but flesh destruction
Nothing leaves without detection

A petty truth I leave unto you
Think with your head and before you do
Disregard that puny ***** you call your heart
It will destroy you, love will tear you apart

The sword that pierced my heart
Was a sword of lust

The sword that pierced my heart
Was a sword of lust

LUST!
LUST!
LUST!

My debt bubble has been de-leveraged & I'll fight with guns plastic
'cause in my life defensive maneuvers have been necessarily drastic
when my crooked, fist-fightin' limbs distend Michael J. Fox spastic
Hurry pops the time for peace has degraded into a campaign drastic
as it's off to Wales where Woody, Keef & Charlie have gassed ****
like Churchill planned for Bonn as he thunk toxic gas was fantastic
& normal like switching toothpaste with a gummy resin tree mastic
that's tacky enough to entrap a brown flea but not a ******, fast tick
on Hillary Clinton's saddle-sore ***'s ****-itchy crack iconoclastic
that forces epidemical ****-casting directresses to brutally cast sick
& crippled X-muffers in dramas that are heterophobic & bombastic
& contra-contrary to the T.N.T. needed to nucleate *** & blast hick
to decree '64 as bein' the year of producer Loke Wan Tho's last flick
I am stirred by murmurs of kittens that have daily purred but my fat
cats never bought never sold never used a toilet never spoke a word
as hairy cats are ecstatic to lick hanging parts that are thickly furred
& drenched in muco-pus, river mud, alkaline residue or mouse ****
that's added for spice with green duck gut, snake nose & rotted bird
to commonize felinicidal fare in stitch with farmerettes heatin' curd
to nourish ol' Jimmy Carter robotoid #14 whose death was deferred
to push puppet Lin Forbes Burnham as David Rockefeller preferred
makes recipes valid for McDonald's grinding men into meat absurd
& the cries of ***** smashing periodic squeals into groans unheard
by moon-friendly babes whose quims rest salmon-pink & uninjured
in aspections physico-social via spirographical methods unpictured
regarding cotomaster vulgaris or second-place placers placing third
with ears & belly buttons clogged by **** & blood-shot eyes blurred
Oh **** Kiki Ebsen, let's love forever the dead Larry, Moe & Curly
& their lower Australian counterparts: the scuzzy Fairy, ** & Girly
who gulp milk with hens' eggs knowing that not 1 dairy foe is burly
as I wanna see H.P.V. vaccine-pricking-swine Rick Perry goin' surly
like Squiggy might've on Garry Marshall's show Laverne & Shirley
starring Cindy Williams & Penny Marshall whose teeth ain't pearly,
& who in heels & padded bra passes as the twin of Jo Anne Worley
in 1963 when cream was in glass bottles & menopause started early
enough for Lee Oswald before The Eye Shadows backed Merle Lee
Disney destroyed maternal worries with furnace asphyxiants of gas,
proving that lungs full of carbon monoxide fumes ain't going to last
to see '39 as '38 wafted by in a whiff of monoxidized demise so fast
for those who cartoonize the near-future, animate God's distant past
so as to demand that Rabbi Shimon's Apocalypse tribes be amassed
to pike the head of Charlie Watts as El Shaddai can never be sassed
before a Satanical/congregational flock of U.S.'s pornocratical cast
conjuring underneath a devilishly-****** act's pornographical blast
framed as merry mix-ups the queerest of collusions that flabbergast
regardless of America's oldest race-baitin' ******'s homosexual past
as a Georgia state assembly guy whom toothless ****** outclassed
Whilst masonical N.A.S.A. creates super-speed planets between us,
nobody cares that our 500,000 mile-per-hour sun is paced by Venus
in aether squattin' like California smog in a stab wound of bean pus
that'll render mucho mas gorier the spit-stained walls of a clean bus
driven off the Sunshine Skyway Bridge by a *****-lovin' mean cuss
who aped a weakling diving from tin panels pitched via a lean truss
that constricts **** lard into prime cream corn to make a queen fuss
The costumes of the Gestapo & American cops are black not 'cause
I like hanging out with lynch mobs & ******* ****** in my shack
& writing Bible corollaries after rammin' enemas up my ****** tract
in repugnance to ***-wipe Zbigniew Brzezinski of the Warsaw Pact
as it is Russia's Crimean annexation of 2014 that he's denied as fact
I curl these 10 toes under so they don't get, by a machete, hacked &
I don't date angry Mafia assassins so as to keep from bein' whacked
whilst the pardoning integrity of demi-god mafiosos governs intact,
as sanctity is conferred knowing which cops by the mob are backed
through underworld graft to ensure pig police are doggedly tracked,
framed, extorted, beat up, spiritually broken & emotionally cracked
haunting dank alleys with the hapless citizens they had blackjacked
whose id acuity gave sway to id injury that caused 'em to be sacked
by politicians placed in places as these are places a mob has hacked
with paid-pain-placebo politicos la cosa nostra has placidly backed
& licked, tucked, hocked, blacked, ticked, socked, cocked & tacked
or redacted, corrected, misdirected, uncooked, rooked & shellacked
plus heckled, freckled, prickled, pickled, trickled, kicked & stacked
Las lebianas de T.V. sexcite & thrill as no low caliber gun ever will
on the battlefields of Vietnam where John Kerry liked to run & ****,
before porkin' John Heinz's Satanical widow in a billion-dollar deal
He couldn't kick his habit each mornin' of taking a birth-control pill
or attending parties of talk-show-maggot Donahue to cop a free feel
after crappin' into pizza boxes to implement Lucifer's masonic weal
I forget not from which side my ****, neck-breaking horse I mount:
hormones coursing, **** strap is tight! What in hell am I on about?
I swoon in love, dance over matches, feel *****, steadily lose count
Her cane, her walker, her wheel chair & support hose, quack-quack,
only prove what gigolos have always known, wealthy hags kick ***
in post-menopausal slump on cruise ships ******* apes for a laugh
up my you-know-what that is a big outlet 25 inches north of my calf
whilst allopathic veterinary cat medicine increases misery @ % 7½
because me no understand a tiny bit God's need for famine & wrath
against dullards whose algebra is more mathematic than basic math
that lets me hog-call the glossy-white pig Kathie Lee Gifford: Kath'
after she aborted 3 kiddies under the bridge on the coat hanger path
Many thrillin' Christian facts have just come to light with a colorful
computer-generated face of Lord Jesus, thank God He is very white
so that we may crucify the black Jesus theory without a ****** fight
that'd be the death-kiss for chimps chimping ghetto-ebonics at night
I care for you like a foreign **** with lots of cars in his huge car lot
I know that kitty-soft quims like yours ain't never wholesale bought
I just want to part your pink ******* in bed or on any army cot
I wanna probe the core of your womanhood like your mama taught:
Cousin Jethro, Uncle Jed, André from U.P.S. & that ****** she shot
in cop-crazed self defense as she feared for her personal safety a lot
'cause her husband had to **** Iraqi children in Iraq where he fought
toilet-strain that queered his insane brain giving him queer-brain rot
that bruised his belly button, above primal glands, with a blood clot
big enough to slow Chris Reeve's gallopin' horse to a paralyzed trot
that'd split the greasy 3 hairs on the cue ball of governor Rick Scott
who's a leg-shaving maniac, less frigidly warm than moderately hot
when he enjoys vein-popping-**** straining on his golden **** ***
where-from he farts that it's legal Agenda 21's new-world-order plot
Love me wet, like you loved ****** loving freak Jacques Cousteau
who drowned 350,000 Unitarians via Aqua-Lung, Don't'cha know?
Ah Satan sees Natasha while she'll step on no pets to see juice flow
along direct paths between points A & B, as would fly a sober crow
34 minutes late for an egg-layin' contest & house-cat-skinning show
that we bird-lovin' farts must look up to the sky from hot hell below
where evaporated diarrhea fills Carnation milk cans in a ****** flow
over irradiated breakfast cereal that radiates a healthful, green glow
that'll thaw **** ice & hypothermic ***** on banana cones of snow
I'm better off than dead, not better often dead, Totie Fields, you liar
I won't skate to Ohio whilst my **** is on fire with ****-love desire
Excuse me while I limp to hell, as my leg was pared just after a fire
that makes me hobble to hell after cooking in Gandhi's funeral pyre
The sweet nectar of rector Hector of the Catholic sector gives sway
to conjecture in the Protestant vector as his carotid artery neck tore
The new nectar of Hector rector of the Catholic sector gave sway to
conjecture with an elector of vector 7 as his carotid artery neck tore
As his carotid artery neck tore, a new nectar of rector Hector de the
Catholic sector gave sway to conjecture with an elector of X vector
As his real pecks & neck tore, black neck tar of rector Hector of the
Catholical sector prefecture shot a letcher, a selector & an inspector
With specks of neck gore, the tarry sect tar of trekked-for Hector of
papal facture could catch more than lure ***** ***** on a tech floor
This violent gothical life moved me into a filthy hermit's hut where
it keeps my ***** mouth shut, the limited movement in my left nut
This stupefyin' gothical life dug me into a buried hermit's rut where
it's kept my ***** mouth shut, the poor functionality of my left nut
has kept 666 donkey gobs shut, the campy dysfunctions of a walnut
It's kept my ***** mouth shut, the bad functionality of my hind gut
It keeps my ***** mouth shut, the limited movement in my left nut
It slams my ***** mouth shut, the fun moments of my lard-*** ****
Your pocked *** are 2 flabby people I haven't wanted to meet again
while I'm busy in bee-stung-hive land eating carp bowel & shark fin

DON'T TOUCH MY *** BECAUSE I'M A LESBIAN FOREVER
& ever & no man'll change it because, ****-wise, I'm lesbian-clever
I'll block you soon forever & blacken your eyes & hide your toupée
because I hate you more queerly than prissy Obama hates being gay
with Michael, as he expresses himself better durin' lactation classes
among the hammer-happy Hillary crowd & Bill's ****-****** *****  
that only worsen clownish ***** dunked by red-sock-ducked passes
through to the prostate in lucky, ancient Hugh Hefner ****** sasses
Eddie Money, Johnny Paycheck & Johnny Cash in 32 papal masses
Lord God, let us gaily promote family-oriented regional voter fraud
for a shiksa of the Red Sea whose **** & *** push a solid boater ***
I cocked hitchings to my petcock like a whinin' Alfred Hitchcock in
anticipation of 18 quacked ribs via unpatented Owl **** ***** Sock
as sinus infections purpled nasal-mucopus excreta into an itch pock
Let me scratch your lard *** in peace, a piece of ***, girly hot ridge,
on the farm with lazy Keith, smart-aleck Danny & Shirley Partridge
who refuses to follow hygienical protocols including hand sanitizer
as your glad, toothless Kentuckian chews via a manned-clan incisor
On blood-drenched sheets you scarf Jiff extra crunchy peanut butter forever & want me to love you for it after hurlin' chunky in a gutter
But I got more complex self-respect than blind respect that's simple
for your cheese-spewing-mucopus-heavy-acne-cystical *** pimple
that made Walker McDonald chuck his walker for a steel gimp pole
so that he could pole vault over Bruce Jenner's scrod & shrimp stall
Deeply from the cockpit of my ******'s messy shore I proclaim that
this itchy crack is a filthy treasure by my big ****** ****'s measure
'cause from it venereal-diseased Johns derive lots of carnal pleasure
until their ureters swell shut & good currents of ***** ain't ****-sure
fewer than 6 inches from the **** uretero-pelvic junction's fist core
where M.L.K., junior scratched deeply his pustulating ****** fissure
Shut up hard-*** **** I can buy & sell you whenever I ******* want
Sit there whilst I pray for guidance or I'll kick you for your defiance
Hi, my name's Kandy and I work in a cat house with mucho ******
who are girlfriends of mine plagued by ulcerative, syphilitical sores
made weepy by salts of the briny deep below Jacmel's ocean shores
Insane James Whitmore claims grit poor as he blames **** for what
shames *** sore after eating fried porridge that defied proper storage
Wherever condominiums are posh the battle is delirium vs.delusion
that illustratively eliminates an elusively-shrill illusion of a colossal
cerebral cortex calamity countering cranial, ****-clinching contusion
The gay estrogen king kept his **** well with agents anthelmintical
till he was killed by the girly estrogen king with pills antiparasitical
Algeria, Algeria, I despise you worser than **** films from Nigeria
made by queer-bait crotch crickets afflicted with advanced progeria
that they got from white-phosphorus-bombed kids of peaceful Syria
where Moslemical love thaws the icy hearts of ******* from Siberia
who ran over the Caucasus via Spain's Portuguese peninsula, Iberia
I'm doubly excited about Intact ******* Day I think I am I am sure,
'cause I got a dark cookie doll in raunchy eastern Mexico to live for
which's why the suicidal jump of Evelyn McHale was not vehicular
in traffic flow manual guides, as the crashed car was her stone floor
Commanding Lieutenant William Bligh was the victim of cowardly
mutiny by Acting Lieutenant Fletcher Christian, two years after His
Majesty's Armed Vessel Bounty did sail, 'cause sweaty-palmed freak
Fletch Christian snagged his mutinous, ripped ****** on a bent nail
Don't let's not, not let's don't count on doubt, unsounded into Jersey
where stinking **** #26 is officiously & officially known as **** Z
who'll scrape, bow, prostrate like a girl whose knees shake in curtsy
who'll scrape & prostrate like a lesbian whose **** shakes in curtsy
Look Santa Claus, my purpled *****' knobs are Christ-like & sharp
like push buttons of a dead angel's gaily-strummed, gay-baited harp
Wing Chun my *** up the center line & I'll hide beneath a tarp after
I call first dibs from a toilet, dharma & karma & catfishes kiss carp
I call first dibs from a toilet, dharma & karma & catfish kisses carp
I call first dibs on the toilet! It's daffy dharma over karma or vicky-
verky. Wing Chun my *** up the center line where jerks chaw jerky
I sank to the bottom of your love bucket like mice winning at bingo
for being ******* to cherry wood while houndin' a kid-killin' dingo
Your clingy love has done much to set me free since you lopped off
2 of your straight front limbs to become a crippled, double amputee
during a Jesus-dead Christmas like I don't like it in an ulcerated sea
under the current of a skinny, barbiturated Johnny Cash over for tea
as calculated gastrical absorption rates rate as constants minus a fee
that transmogrifies my sleek, **** **** into the bulbous *** of a bee
what pendulates & undulates below the bend of my lonely left knee
in relation to fly-papered catch-alls & bug zappers in my family tree
where 1 ape wrangler wrangles triangular angles, bangles, spangles
for Christmas like I don't like it because my ******* on ice dangles
whilst fearin' for Winston Smith as to when caged rats/mice fangs'll
avulse eyes & gnaw on his tongue, before weaving nests in his lung
that shall really make it tricky to sing sing-songs he ain't never sung
that'll make it hard to gaily sing sing-songs he ain't never gaily sung
Merry Christmas nice Santa Claus, happy birthday & prepare to die
'cause when it comes to murdering fat men, I'm not the least bit shy
around dippy/daffy ***** too dried out to give it that old college try
outside college because I am the same age while they are a lot older
with bruised head, dented instep, hammer toe & arthritical shoulder
that goes up when I slip down a hill that's got many a loose boulder
to crush Miss Austria even though I once angrily warned & told her
of what's in for tall chicks runnin' ledges in acts dangerously bolder
for beauty queens long in the tooth & **** babes significantly older
whose hottest movements render homely ***** withdrawn & colder
than the homosexy boy-toy lover of Obama pickaninny Eric Holder
from whom I've hid in 32 Kenyan files a blatantly-fraudulent folder
of cheery, cherry Christ Masses reamin' the beheld's queer beholder

Why Has Everyman Turned To Beards?

It’s weird,
This shift to beard controlled appearance.
A trend it seems, not only spreading,
But which has no end.
Scratching when it kisses,
Missing out on blisses, I assure you.
Shaping face, I must admit,
(but not to everyman’s face-benefit).

If truth be told,
It must be hell to keep a chin/cheek fold all squeaky smooth.
But who in heavens want to hold, take hold
                                                           of bristles,
Or see badly shaped and prickly thistles?
Men have aped since lunar’s start.
Everyone knows that!
Fashion is contagious as the rabies from a bat.

Long, short, food-y flecked, unchecked,
Yet there is self-absorption’s admiration.
Let us hope the puppy generation
Growing up will razor up,
Shave every self-helped hair
Formed there (or anywhere.)
It grows unlimitedly wild.

Undefiled, I plead,
Wield the blade
And beauteously shear with care.
Brave new men, you are not cavemen!
Shave men!
One more time and once again -
Just shave!

Why Has Everyman Turned To Beards? 3.27.2020 Our Times, Our Culture II; A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Arlene Nover Corwin

By dream or dance I’m released
from a curse of hating self
dysmorphia lurking in the mind
escaped in sleep or by jig

either is a welcome break
there is no judgment that I face
from the self with decree
that shame is due in figure’s wake

in one world I’m beyond
the mortal coil of waking life
with the angles all too cruel
aped in mirrors I despise

the illusion denies my age
suspended in amber vision
denying what came before
perception’s verdict oh so kind

the other realm is movement’s grace
belying size or corporal space
when the joy envelops me
stepping light with music’s tune

motion blinds the critical
only seeing spin and pass
across the body, turn of foot
exquisite distraction I adore

one or the other is what I seek
relief from voices that only jeer
mocking form, derisive vents
numbing by the volume spent

these I’ll put behind me when
I sleep or dance at last blind
to the taunts I can’t abide
by dream or dance I’m released.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20171111.

Face from an age consumed by the past
echoed in dreams that taunt here and now
recalling the tension that ushered the end
to the missed friendship no longer alive

again I am visited by the chill haunt
walker of dreams aped in my mind
reminding me of the painful discord
creating a gulf with no end in sight

during the dreaming I saw how it is
nectar of kindness offered to all
except to this one, the witness had naught
instead a cold chill was sent to my heart

I persisted to get a few words
in past night trances they vanished with none
I was rewarded, a small victory
though it was empty, void of much love

there are some pictures that mark fellowship
more clear than old memories, faded by years
fodder for visions in still of the night
all I have left, now that they’re gone

I’ve fallen so far from past harmonies
when friendship had blossomed decades ago
now I have dreams that recall the one
the star of the three, far from my side.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20171128.