When did I start drawing for fun? Art is for babies--little babies with tasty crayons. Anyway, here is a picture of a peacock monster with an elderly face. "Touch me, Flannery!" he cries, for obvious reasons.
There was no fire, Abi, Nor leaves the color of fire Turning in the wind, nor starlight Refracted and turning in the sky As if evil were gorgeous And believable as the dying twilight’s Red smoldering coal.
Only a peacock, no phoenix, Nor flying, striding among hemlock And crying that its head was lost In a space of the sky like a spark In a fireplace chimney, That beauty was useless, That earth and the dark were cold.
Another sonnet for Tricia, who's 25, we note, which doesn't damage our ardor, flycasting for trout, catch and release, leaving on the hands a little fishy grease. According to Google, various porno sites tout a card (surely a canard) among their monkeyhouse algorhythms which depicts Tricia Flannery fucking John Blair.
Tricia Flannery's fucking John Blair. Her ass is pink, her eyes are blue, But who can guess the color Of her ever-touseled hair?
See what happens? Here's the sonnet:
SPYROS
“Why are you wearing a girlish dress?” A virgin idiot taunted Achilles, Reaching under his peplum for a whirlpool Of falling stars, encountering a cannon. This was on Spyros, the Greek diaspora Like a disco light, frantic, slow and eternal, Complacent as a headache, even Back then, so she squeezed it And looked at him significantly, And told herself, if not now, when? Awaiting like a woman the apocalypse, And not to display her laundry, But to sing to herself the songs Of her people while she washed it.
Someone’s balloon has softly hit the net. * Is our Patricia flustered as a Siberian flower, A blue-bearded iris, a Maria Sharapova? Hell no, Her second serve’s a thousand miles an hour!
10 comments:
This is exceedingly beautiful
DOMINATION
There was no fire, Abi,
Nor leaves the color of fire
Turning in the wind, nor starlight
Refracted and turning in the sky
As if evil were gorgeous
And believable as the dying twilight’s
Red smoldering coal.
Only a peacock, no phoenix,
Nor flying, striding among hemlock
And crying that its head was lost
In a space of the sky like a spark
In a fireplace chimney,
That beauty was useless,
That earth and the dark were cold.
Another sonnet for Tricia, who's 25, we note, which doesn't damage our ardor, flycasting for trout, catch and release, leaving on the hands a little fishy grease. According to Google, various porno sites tout a card (surely a canard) among their monkeyhouse algorhythms which depicts Tricia Flannery fucking John Blair.
Tricia Flannery's fucking John Blair.
Her ass is pink, her eyes are blue,
But who can guess the color
Of her ever-touseled hair?
See what happens? Here's the sonnet:
SPYROS
“Why are you wearing a girlish dress?”
A virgin idiot taunted Achilles,
Reaching under his peplum for a whirlpool
Of falling stars, encountering a cannon.
This was on Spyros, the Greek diaspora
Like a disco light, frantic, slow and eternal,
Complacent as a headache, even
Back then, so she squeezed it
And looked at him significantly,
And told herself, if not now, when?
Awaiting like a woman the apocalypse,
And not to display her laundry,
But to sing to herself the songs
Of her people while she washed it.
Check that. I think she was fucking Tony Blair, so you'd have to go:
Tricia Flannery fucking Tony Blair--
Her ass is pink, her eyes are blue,
But what is the color
Of her ever-tousled hair?
That's too bad--John Blair would have been a more interesting partner by far.
YOU GO GIRL
Someone’s balloon has softly hit the net. *
Is our Patricia flustered as a Siberian flower,
A blue-bearded iris, a Maria Sharapova? Hell no,
Her second serve’s a thousand miles an hour!
* Comment #5, "Fault!"
Hahahahaaa, lord this is funny. i like, especially, the toe nubbins.
xor
*basks in sweet glow of Rebecca Acceptance; plus whatever anon is sending my way*
She didn't decapitate him,
She kicked him where she wouldn't blind him.
(This is where the serpent lives, the bodiless, etc.)
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