Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Irma Cerrutti Mar 2010
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.
Copyright © Irma Cerrutti 2009
Brent Kincaid Nov 2017
Hey ****** ******,
Some stars gotta fiddle
Just like a Catholic priest.
We have to give them credit,
God saved them when they did it.
And blessed them at the least.

Hey ****** ******
Fat Trump has to fiddle
With women he can control.
He pretends he doesn’t know
What that word simply shows
Since the last syllable is troll.

Hey ****** ******
A high powered fiddle
Is always powered by cash.
But, Mr. Diddler
Unlike a talented fiddler
You are nothing but overpaid trash.

Hey ****** diddledick
We all hope your fiddlestick
Falls off and lays on the ground
Then you could stop it
And the women could stomp it.
And kick your skanky *** around.
Robin Carretti Jun 2018
The treasure chest
Her ((Piece De Resistance))
French skills of perseverance
She was a hollow crown of jewels
Not the zircon bright yellow
The darker to see you my dear
near my pillow

That death by chocolate how
she craved those sweets
Graveyard shift current events

Those men dark Batman suits
water skiing and internet surfing
That bat eye batmobile showdown
missile

Cells and locks to open the
gate and keys
A hell  of a wish never on
Sunday to ring her bell the Siren
She made their hair home
Sunday  dark gravy

Lips were too thin and skully
Was a cycle her lowdown
Shot glass don't touch my Philly
So gravely razor suit and a shave
Her mouth Tornado
But the vivacious Viking

  Crypt look hellhole
The gathering dead again
Santa dead pole
couldn't stop bickering
No-one cared to notice her
dreadlocks
"The Cryptocurrency"
what urgency
She was drawn into the
Arsenic and Lace
Viva Las Vegas roll the dice
Cryptic engraved cellar
Like the maestro was playing
his serenade
She-devil Pillar
catching her death of cold
Feeling high winding staircase
Wearing her gown ripped lowdown
Being blown off the town lace
Oh! Fiddlestick with the
***** of light
Breaking free from husbands sight
The rise of the current storms
heads up she drinks Grand
dead Marnier
Took over such a restraint
This wasn't black and gray
spray paint

What a fiercest most recent
ancient  current events
Reptilian and it was the
family of witches and covens
Words engraved so cryptically
She was wearing her
snakeskin bag signature

The body of dead sea such rapture
The fire feet stepping over seashells
Takes the hell out of Sahara snakes
  She got a backdraft
Black widow of waistlines
13 inches Spyder Graphics
Those shifters and heretics

He was the Rocky face
The shorelines those laugh-lines
Sad clown dark eyes scratched
The cat feline

Her addiction was the guylines
Crypt crooked cop fines
Another startup kit
The dark edgy women her
legs just fit
Dark and edgy things crypt with coffins dying current waves are the
only thing living. This is like the Arsenic and Lace but those old ladies had a change of face
this alteh kocker nostalgically reflects
     being ma late mama's boytchik
(now, she long since deceased,
     whose cremated remains of day

     scattered to all points on compass)
     fondly referencing
     both sisters as dabchick
incongruously sprinkled her Brooklyn brogue,
especially when angry, she quickly segued

     from mild expletive fiddlestick
the latter playfully aired,
     when kibitzing wit bubeleh
reminiscing being dirt poor,

     nonetheless zee mother
     every now an again homesick
regaling the whole mishpokhe
     (meaning us brood of kids)

interrupting herself
     with frequent non sequiturs
     discombobulated anecdotes switching subjects
     as if external forcefield

     jimmying a joystick
interleaving disparate threads with subsequent
     tangential linkedin snippets
     with feigned lovesick

chatting 'bout cockamamie
     "Grandpa Moishe"
     and his chaim yankel posse
     (to escape hen pecking nudnik
"grandma Rebecca"),
     a trenchant termagent bubba,

     not averse to incorporate dreck
     in the same sentence with zayda
     ostracized him
     scoring figurative placekick,

whence upon his schlepping back home
     met with "silent treatment" dampening rollick
king atmosphere choking tearfully
     "mother" recounted

     farblunget anger thick
lee palpable extremely discomfiting,
     particularly when ("mom's")
     girlhood friends bore witness aye gavalt,

     where penury churned moribund thoughts
viz empty cupboards
     devoid of bare necessities
     a figurative apropos yardstick.
Michael Demian Feb 2020
He takes a fiddlestick and gently
Starts to caress his violin,
Creating magic sounds intently
That take all those around him in.

A miracle enfolds our bodies,
The real world exists no more
When into music he embodies
What was concealed in him before.

Celestial, amazing beauty
Flows to our ears from fairy lands,
Enchanting splendor that’s on duty
Of his divinely gifted hands.

And in our world that’s getting rougher,
By shedding music from above,
He comforts those who deeply suffer,
Inspires those who are in love.

This man’s a gift the world desires.
His talent makes our hearts rejoice.
So strongly humankind admires
And loves his soul’s amazing voice.

— The End —