"kaput" poems
The tenderness as they described it is circumnavigating more than the ******* and the roundness of my protruding *******
Perhaps by tenderness of the breast, what they really mean is tenderness of the soul and the emotions one hurriedly tucks under the crevices of their *****
If one imagines how ******* are anything but tender, with their ferocity of nurturing life and their wholly encompassing nature to weigh and weigh and weigh
Weight carried by a mother,
Shed off by her daughter,
Caressed by the one she lies with in the crevice of her soul and the gap between twin XL bunk beds and walls full of picture of people who no longer weigh her down
It's the feeling of nostalgia and nostalgia feeling this tenderness growing from one's *******
Growth of the ***** of life as a life imagined is destroyed, nullified, kaput.
But most of all she feels nostalgia.
Nostalgia for the people whose tenderness she felt,
Nostalgia yes for her brother and grandmother cloaked in love around her neck like crystals from an iridescent silver clasp
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 10:36 AM UTC
Time passes by like a whistle in the wind. Ignored and only observed within the thickness of one's skin. The once gnawing temptation in Lula's eyes were now exchanged in kaput like a dead black swan in the lake.
It grew on her and she can only justify it by moving her legs back in forth and forward with her ballet shoes; she can only obtain her physical through the applause of everyone around her. Yet, there were trickles of blood forming inside her internal wound — as the piano strikes another note in A minor, she can only whisk in pain and undone drafts in her head. "Tis will be over", she raises her head upon the crowds heaping in excitement, she turned around and flew her wings upright and the heads of the audience once more clapped in vain and delirium nonsensical pleasure.
As Chopin's symphony were almost in the last note, she stood straight and made her way to the middle. There, she locked eyes with her forbidden lover and a small smile throughout. The intensity of another Vivaldi's winter classic can be grasp once more and another set up of white swans gathered together — formed a circle and she went in the middle. Her eyes turned black and her wings bleed another tint of jet black and crimson. The crowds awed in reverence and she soared above them. A starlet in the headless crowds and dreary sweet rustle of voices gave her another bliss.
And while she was served aloft, there were another macabre symphony that plays through the soft rough piano; it was a solemn prayer and they were the kind souls going up to the heavens.
"Go on, Salem. Play the winter magic," Salem could only look at his muse and he strike another note, passing notes two steps from their 'haven'.
Lula slowly ripped her wings for the last time and smiled to all the headless men. Her satin dress reveals her plumpy chest and an hourglass body. Lula is a goddess black swan. Men could only forward their eyes and threw her pennies once more and she could only move in her balletic conventional pose. For the last time, she flew with her black tinted wings and they were all beheaded.
The white swans began to sing in a solemn outcry until it became too remorseful. The white swans turned their heads down when they met Lula's dead eyes. Her laugh echoing the whole stadium with its own persona and it is like crawling down into waltz where it reaches their earshot. They can only sing in albeit and expensive heads started to explode.
"Two steps from hell," she sings.
May 30, 2021
May 30, 2021 at 7:11 AM UTC
Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Bumming your fat knobs and insert your helmet naked and unashamed
Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Kicking off kick-off, cyborgs brought face to face
Tartan sunstroke and may Mumbo Jumbo's **** all lie among you
Nine, eleven, seven, thirteen, six, quinquereme, ******** ********* Tweedledum and Tweedledee, unsocial person, erectoffensive!
This is Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
You've really ****** the naval officer
And the hatchet faces want to know whose blouses you abuse
Now it's time to evacuate the ******* if you have a free hand
This is Lance Corporal Tom to Masticated Ectoplasm
I'm fancy dress dancing through the cat—flap
And I'm groping inside a swollen grotesque sailor
And the plums look gigantically unusual nowadays
Ergo from Land's End to John o' Groats am I piddling in a crumpet slammer
Telescopic hindward the lump
Uranus Arsenic is scatological
And there's sweet **** all I can have ****** *********** with
With the proviso that I'm Ichabod celibate centipede sextillion heads
I'm fondling vigorously paparazzo
And I think my sputnik knows which direction to ****
Tell my ballbreaker I ****** her vigorously for England, she bonks
Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Your menstrual cycle's kaput, there's oojakapivvygizmo spleen
Can you smell me, Lance Corporal Tom?
Can you get to the bottom of me, Lance Corporal Tom?
Can you delve into me, Lance Corporal Tom?
Can you...
From Land's End to John o' Groats am I vibrating ring my crumpet criminal lunatic asylum
Telescopic hindward the groupie
Uranus Arsenic is scatological
And there's sweet **** all I can have ****** *********** with
Mar 27, 2010
Mar 27, 2010 at 4:22 PM UTC
Sloane swallows.
***** is ****
I execrate extraterrestrial.
We are all kaput to conk out.
Pollyanna is singular hanky—panky.
Little green men are unpatriotic, perverted and naughty.
I verily don’t grease a *****
Oojakapivvycum.
If you are amphibious that means you are an effervescent ventriloquist capable of
Cannibalism, cannibalism and cannibalism.
The fluid inside the android is so gothic and naff
It is knock—kneed in the face of flashing **********
I do not feel that I am on the shoulders of cobber doggies.
I am protoplastically lassoed abutting penetrating vampire and pervert
That penetrate ***** creature.
I have pricked little green men myself and taken pleasure in it.
It is only with the help of bad hair days of groupies that I have not been in Sing Sing.
We are all sadomasochistically decomposing in a heap of our own meconium.
I bore stiff to outstrip yours truly as much as I have room to swing a cat from Ku Klux ****
But I am as complicit in the android’s ****** abuse as it were android ***
Little green men ***** me as I ***** myself.
I ***** bug—eyed men’s ******* types as I have perpetually vomited Molotov cocktail.
I smell little green men’s filth televised on their ******* types.
I feel like I am inside a crust of cancers who delight in smelling others bonk upstairs,
Ad hominen id. Ex post facto,
I am too much of a dastard to throw cold water on myself.
I coagulate gungily to my menstrual gibbering ******
Castrating anti—Semite to flash me abutting crème de la crème.
Strenuously, my ***** gluts under one’s nose because that is all there is.
Mar 21, 2010
Mar 21, 2010 at 6:27 PM UTC
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 prick.
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.
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 4:09 PM UTC
Are we now not on two different planes?
Hearing new songs in lay, in sideways borograbes
By your feet too do these crisped, grey leaves scatter?
These humming autumn inscects remind me it doesn't matter
That shining floral fantasy is now merely fauna
I smother now the tinted leaved cantaluna
Can a buried flower blossom and grow?
I yearn not to care or know.
This old marigold once shimmered with light
Age and decay resisted any honest plight.
Henceforth I am the seed, waiting for the warm sun's yawn
These boyish locks now retire, waiting for a new man to dawn.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 3:33 AM UTC
[Shake Your ***** by KC and the Sunshine Band]
Oklahomans, get out doors, last chance
Scott Pruitt's leaving, no backward glance
Shake shake shake, shake shake shake
Frac your ***** frac your *****
Oh, shake shake shake, shake shake shake
Frac your ***** frac your *****
Oh, you have frac-ed for oil quite ah spell
You have messed up your world. What the hell
Oh, now you shake, shake shake shake
Fractured ***** fractured *****
Oh, shake shake shake, shake shake shake
Water's sooty, smells pah-tooty, oh yeah
Oh, shake shake, shake shake
Oh, shake shake, shake shake
Oh, Daily shake, Big mistake
Frac your ***** frac your *****
Oh, across your state, Big earthquakes
Frac your ***** All's Kaput-ee!
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 9:07 PM UTC
I, Kinmgo Kaput, Lord of the Three Grand Lands
that Sink Every Time there is a Flood;
I, Lord of the Queen of The All Basins that Deliver
Rich Harvests and Rice and Lentils and that rules
the Nether Rooms in the Mansions;
I, Pharaoh and Lord of All Kingdoms
that ever existed before my Time on this Wretched Earth;
I, Lord of the Rich Lands and Lord of Wood and Metal
and Lord of a Thousand Such Designations;
I, King, Emperor, Pharaoh, Son of Heaven
and Descended of Stars;
I do solemnly swear and declare
you a Nincompoop for reading this, wasting your time idly
looking at lines not worth the space they inhabit;
You, waster of time reading lines of second-rate verse
rather than feeding the poor
or offering your hours at the House of the Wretched;
You, waster of time reading poems and verse
not worth the alphabet the language inhabits –
You, I declare a Nincompoop
and may you waste your hours in the Underworld
translating the lives of Ants into clay tablets of verse
that disappear after each line you carve;
and may you, nincompoop who wastes such time reading such empty verse,
may you so waste eternity
And thus have I spoken and thus is it recorded on this wall,
the Solemn Words (no laughing or sneering there!)
Of Kinmgo Kaput, Lord of the Three Basins
That have been left Unwashed
by the Queen who lords over Home
Oct 2, 2010
Oct 2, 2010 at 2:57 AM UTC
Books to the library
photos to family.
Paint cans and lumber
from renovations years ago.
Most of the furniture
including the piano.
Fastest way to do this
is rent a dumpster.
On the internet
nothing’s permanent.
I like that.
Photosynthesis, evaporation
as if your spirit disappears
when the sun appears.
It’s a burden lifted
not to have to persevere.
Edits
for clarity
and brevity.
One owes the reader
a respite from
the tonnage of
fructifying English.
To drown one’s book is devoutly to be wished.
Coupla trumpets,
big comfy couch,
four beds and dressers
and the contents of closets.
Tools we don’t use,
surge protectors and chargers,
lawn and patio accoutrements,
table settings for ten.
Lamplit underground,
the stray branch,
synchronized chaos,
a red fez.
One canary,
map of Antarctica,
three deaf little otoliths,
six or seven sybils.
Extra salt and pepper shakers,
sharpies and crayons,
a printer and a scanner,
the Bible and Koran.
Kaput calculators and computers,
subscriptions and prescriptions,
a host of vitamins
and the ghosts of ancestors.
Time itself
but not nature.
Wealth
and most of culture
but not my health.
That I’ll keep,
and sleep—practice
for perfect rest.
Mar 19, 2024
Mar 19, 2024 at 6:54 AM UTC
Ljudi, hej ljudi, čiji je ovo tužni pas !?
Gledajte samo kako se
šćućurio tu u uglu,
i kako se samo trese od hladnoće…
Ljudi, hej, pogledajte,
da neko od vas nije izgubio psa,
pogledajte, nije džukac,
gle samo kako mu se crna dlaka sjaji,
pogledajte,
pa to njemu suze idu.
Ljudi, deco,
čiji je ovo pas,
poslednji put pitam,
ako ga neko ne odnese na toplo, uginuće.
E, ako je tako, nosim ga ja svojoj kući.
Dođi kuco, dođi.
Tako…
Jao što su ti se smrzle šapice,
sad ću tebe ja odneti svojoj kućici,
to će ti biti novi dom,
imaćeš i šta da jedeš,
biće ti toplo i čuvaćemo jedan drugog.
Pa muško si, ček da vidim…
Pa jesi, jesi muško si…
E sad da te ušuškam u svoj kaput i idemo,
ček samo da uzmem maramicu
da ti obrišem te suzice,
jeste tako,
nema potrebe da plačeš više,
sad imaš svoj dom.
Samo da smislim kako da te zovem…
Samo da smislim…
Čupko !
E, zvaću te Čupko, mali moj…
Eto, obrisali smo suze,
samo još da ti obrišem tu penicu sa usta…
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 4:56 PM UTC
He smashed his toy gun in seventy four.
Desperation - his face soured.
The shopkeeper knew he was more than kaput
and as for missing the xmas disco ~
he world never walk under the moon of love
from that day beyond.
The bullies had ran their cause
carefully formulating the groundswell.
Who were they his enduring question?
.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
welcome to Earth on which we live,
why here? no one can say.
one thing is certain 'bout this planet's burdens;
they never will ever go away.
why not on Mercury? Neighbor the sun?
it's too close, the heat is unreal.
its surface is hot, a place we go not,
for we are too fragile to heal.
how about Venus, our sisterly planet?
she's gross and unhealthy too.
her surface corroded and it's duly noted
that this one will just never do.
we could try Mars, our redheaded friend
but alas! that simply won't work.
too much pollution for any solution
we'd most likely just end up hurt.
what say Jupiter that big cloudy mess?
good luck you dreamer and fool.
impossible dagnabbit! don't try to inhabit
for us that place is too cruel.
now you say Saturn, the world of infinity
well infinite is just a bad joke.
the rings may be nice, but take my advice,
there's too great a chance we'd all choke.
then perhaps Neptune, one more chance at home
your hopes once again are kaput.
she's not only distant, but far too resistant
to ever once let us set foot.
now our last chance Pluto, the farthest
but she's been sadly forgotten.
why dream of this? she's clearly not missed
by now she's dead and rotten.
my friends you have realized the greatest of truths
that anywhere else we'd be dead.
our life here on Earth is more than it's worth
as we dwell on our cosmic homestead.
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 10:50 PM UTC
I’m falling off this rock
There’s not enough gravity left
I stood on the wrong side, too close to the edge
Now, I’m falling, fare me well
We didn’t pay all our bills to God
Not insured enough, walk and run and trip and fall
So, now. kaput!
Save this crazy lifetime in a warped bottle
Which soon will crack for all its solar scrutiny
Insulate the bold things you can never have on stained glass fuzzy print
A half eaten apple sitting on a dusty cloud still has that deified eye planted on it
Globes are lit in insolence on mossy beds
Dreams in armour pick up tell tale signs of cooing sounds very far away
An autumn landscape falls upon the face on a knight whose real name is you
A cruciform gift embedded in a rock only the worthy can retrieve
A lump of coal burns in steady flickers within the palm of hand
Hop out bowl and try to fly, yet land four seconds short of truth
Hiding beneath a rude rainbow and peeping out at striker rays
Cells squirm and turn, ready to burst out soma
And a sky stretches on and on, like a dicey waterfall in ******
One photo snap and it’s all gone!
tonight I watch it come alive at ten to midnite
recalled clues illumine yet don't show all
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 10:48 AM UTC
Vallabh Savani is so kind and cute
Above all, ready to help any boot –
Low caste, low esteemed or kaput.
Love through his blood does overshoot
And sooths many Sankets who commute
Benevolence to all generations coot.
In dilemma and hassle, he is parachute;
Help for a friend; foe and faulty to execute.
Has contributed to campaign anti-pollute,
Sighted orphans and settled destitute,
Awarded teachers like me and persecute
Vast enmity against him which substitute
Allies as Hardik and myself in healthy lawsuit.
Never saw him angry or upset as he commute;
Insane behaviour is far as never did he salute
Someone, but bowed his head to transmute
Inner love and care to all old and his recruit.
Remain healthy and wealthy! This my tribute.
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 8:30 AM UTC
you haven’t written me a love poem in so long
around midnight,
two too together,
climb in to bed,
covers tucked,
up to their chins,
happy old souls
settling in 4 the evening...
suddenly followed,
by a furious
sixty seconds of
running and rubbing,
semi-serious sinning,
hands up ‘n down
any part, nearest, handy,
public or private, dandy,
maybe even a minute moaning,
a simple reassurance,
a kind of insurance,
covering bases,
first, second and third,
yeah, ***** to me, attracted...
exhausted, contorted,
exalted, these two fossils,
rising like a holy ghosts,
from the dust bin of
a jointed storied history,
begin to race, who will,
be first to sleep-snoring...
yet
one of them thinking
in those waning moments,
*you haven’t written me
a love poem in so long,*
the other, thinking happily,
*ha! finally learned to keep
poems, short and simple*
and both of them
kaput, lights out darkened,
until coffee arrives by
seven thirty morn light,
handmade, by hand delivered...
Jun 10, 2020
Jun 10, 2020 at 2:50 PM UTC
There was something about her that always stuck around
And it’s not that I didn't like it
But she made me feel confused, astounded
As if I watched the sun go out and back but an inch bigger and a little brighter
I fancy myself a fighter, but I’m helpless against you
Without even as much as a one-two, I’m kaput
And if I could tell you, I would,
But unfortunately, I turn to wood at the sight of you
I don’t even really see her often
She comes and goes at intervals
A spark in the tinder
A tug on the line
I’m doing just fine, really,
This isn't about you,
But I think you can see through that clearly
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 12:53 AM UTC
Tyres and trash climbing to four long stories high
burning the dynamo of governments made
from variegated beliefs in sharing seats
unspent people divided by calculated fear
and farm implements from backyard fences
to break the back of steel helmets and
rubber truncheon policies.
Piled high on the side-walks of history
they gather in tight knots yet untangled
before water canons and formations
of advancing barricades of brutal regimes
seated around, round glossy tables
of disagreement.
Nothing works right if a lone spanner
finds its way into the giant machinery
that rolls over people down a roadway
of dissent. Freedom is not plugged
into any powered source if unaccepted
in the lone man's spark of will.
Soon the doorways of flight
will open and haste will chase
the suited gentry of harsh cross-hair policies
into pockets of safety within
other brutal regimes.
Fly now while you can
the plugs will be pulled shortly
and the day will descend into darkness
Hellfire will close in around you
if you wait to cling to power
that is not yours. Run now. Run.
Fly. Disappear. Kaput. Finito.
Author Notes
We go West now. Just coming from deep South.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 12:32 AM UTC
It’s all about remembering the calls of the blue water and stories when the golden globe sank inside happily to be born somewhere else with apologies for the rejected words and love and a reminder to nail the frail blank papers!
It’s all about carrying picture albums all the way round in the school bag and holding the panic of leaving the heart possessed things, to leave foot prints at the door steps with sonnets in heart and ink stains on the skirt with the word ‘forever’!
It’s all about the crisp wind easing the whine of heart and the effortless glad crimson scars of life, drinking coffee and lobster watching rain through the cracked window pane searching for the adventures of beauty!
It’s all about becoming a part of the unwanted yellow note book pages breathing the never spoken emotions, ********* the tiniest memories with echoes of time and dust and whispering to your silent soul about your lessening autobiography!
It’s all about being the ballerina when melodies played late night, to see things scattered all over the desk and lay by the window on the crest with memories pasted on walls filling stillness all around the corroding iron ramparts!
It’s all about searching for the dried out basil stems and binding them with a thread and wishing that someday they’ll fuse together to swim in sun lit mornings for the dragon flies to bind the kaput dreams together, to live life!
It’s all about waiting at the familiar doors with the falling petals of memory and still trying to figure out the moist waited face with a screaming brain, aching veins and wrinkling skin ;the fingers searching in the wet mosses for the familiar shadow!
It’s all about dying with a dream of the familiar imperfections with the stony silence of the skull and dreams of a twilight graveyard with darkness all around a red rose faultless among the dried damp flowers!
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 1:08 AM UTC
Why does the music stop?
It wasnt supposed to stop on its own
Not like this anyway, it was too abrupt
It happened out of nowhere, too
Just...kaput, done, silence
No warning at all
Cant dance without it, what gives?
Waving around on my own like a fool to no background noise
Aimless gesturing and random movements
But before it stopped, there was coherence
Those same motions made perfect sense
A dance with a song that goes together
Now there is no more melody
So there shall be no more dance neither
Cease and desist, and walk away as if there was no song or dance
Why did it stop?
I'll never know
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 11:44 PM UTC
Missile Ways
What's up the sky and the Russian planes?
Before they're splashed by Stinger missiles
Whoosh! Missile away go go go **** a jet
Or chopper bring it down in the water
Let the crew freeze or drown
Some burn alive or get killed in the crash
How dare they invade Ukraine!
Teach them all a lesson forever
Some things not to be forgotten
Like Duncan in Dune 2021 die superbly
Never surrender no matter what
This is how Ukraine is now
No matter what happens
Ukraine wins Russia loses
Splashed enemy aircraft
Dead aircrew Putin kaput
Mar 20, 2022
Mar 20, 2022 at 6:01 PM UTC
Lost Sailing
The boat sails this way and that
Round around the waters
Lost its rudder a while ago
Like a person with no eyes
Going about by feel alone
Wondering how it happened?
Up **** creek no **** paddle
These things happen like life
Made in Red China kaput
Low quality crap made bad
Mass produced ****
Sold to us by the CCP turtles
Like the boat going round
But that's fine the crew
Tho minus a rudder
Are drinking a dozen beers
No cares for this world
Or the next sailing there
In a rudderless boat
Is the boat on the Styx
Also without a rudder?
And made by the Chinese?
What does the ferryman think?
All fine as long as you pay
Coins on a dead person's eye
Chinese currency refused
Apr 23, 2022
Apr 23, 2022 at 5:47 PM UTC
it was, just one step.
not looking the right way,
at the right time.
a screaming hissing dragon
sound...
and then kaput!
i was down among the dead.
sitting in a room,
walls bloodred,
and decorated, tickertape style,
with all the things,
i'd left unsaid.
there was one window,
through which i saw...
what my life could have been.
if not, for an, unlucky draw.
there was no door.
and the floor was tiled,
in regrets and tears.
the light, filtered through,
a crystal chandelier,
of my fears.
i no longer sleep or wake.
but yet, am suspended
in this nightmare state.
and every afternoon,
at, four seventy five
the red eyed god.
checks that i breathe.
and always, he says
just before he leaves.
if you, had looked both
ways,
this would not have
happened,
you would have seen the bus, that left you, squished and flattened
and that,
is when it registers,
once more....
this is hell.... i am dead
and here forever....
and the red eyed god,
laughs and says,
are n't you clever!!!
he then leaves.
and i remain,
wishing i could,
replay that moment
again
when i step down,
off the curb
in front of a bus.
going to some
unknown suburb.
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 1:15 AM UTC
Kratos the King, keenly kept the Kingdom of Kittens,
Katerina was his Kween, his Khaleesi,
Kindheartedly he kindled her,
Katerina was kind and knowledgeable,
Yet Katerina kindled no kittens for the King,
Kratos, who was keen for kids.
Knuckles was a knight, keen and klutzy,
Knuckles kept the killing knife,
He kept knaves from the King’s Kingdom.
Kiska kept the kitchen.
Kawaii and krasiva was Kiska.
Knuckles kindled her, kindheartedly, as she was his kin.
Karma kindled kindly in the Kingdom,
Kinetic kaleidoscopic karma,
Kindred karma of kindness,
Karma knotted in kinesis,
***** karma,
Kooky karma -
Knocked-out the karmic kismet:
Kratos kissed Kiska.
…
Katerina knew Kiska was knocked-up,
Kindlessly she kneaded killing karma, and,
Knowingly knocked Knuckles into knowing:
Kiska his kin, keyed kingly by Kratos!
“Knave! Klepto! Kin of the kennel!”
Knuckles kicked-off at Kratos.
“Katerina! Thou know-it-all Karen!”
“Kiska is no kink to me!”
“Knowst me kempt and kosher!”
Kratos knew he was kaput.
The Knight kicked the King, killingly,
Kicked and kept kicking.
Kratos kneeled, knackered,
Knocked down,
He knew, the killing knife was,
Kinda a kindness…
Knowing the knockout,
Knuckles killed the King!
Jun 27, 2025
Jun 27, 2025 at 7:43 AM UTC