Work is in progress On how bifurcation of the phallus Led to a bride's wild confusion And a bridegroom's mute distress. Meanwhile, do inform Dino How he too was once abdominal And phenomenal until successfully Dislodged. Studying Clawfoot's Iconic probiscus, one's obliged
To conclude that someone you knew Drove or collided headfirst With a Dodge. When fears, as such, Are nominal, they're poetic and nutritious. But actual, they're merely abominable, The soul in ethereal, wordless paralysis. Kudos to you, smart tootsie-wootsie, Whose soul, O ganders, loves verbal, visual And visceral baloney, and therefore flies!
Wanton, be thou the porcelain, Luminous and triumphant dolphin Of my gong-tormented, dong-tormented Sea, in love with every freak Of utterance and desire, a boy I knew when I was nine Who used his cunningly cleft thumb To disentangle fishing line, Which craves, like words, or worms On hooks, a temporary lack Of meaning, so someone can take it, Shake it, come awake again, Either to live or die, and lie gasping, Mortally amazed, half mammal, Half fish. Wanton, a flying squirrel Seizes your girdle, its nose Nestled in your navel, it body Your blurred escutcheon, its tail Cleaving your cloven thighs. Once An innocent bride was disquieted To discern at first a pale, grimly
Slotted plum angering to emerge From the prepuce of her chum, Hitherto gentle and decorous, Who now explained softly his shame At this phenomenon, purple, almost Marble, and unique to him In his experience among men, But if she promised to maintain His secret, he’d demonstrate How they could use his peculiar Deformity for unimaginable fun, Which they did, and for quite awhile The Innocent Bride, now a wife, Wandered the village, shopping, Laundering and so forth, aglow With an enigmatic, pickerel smile, Which attracted her husband’s Closest friend when the former Was away for a month on business, Who plied her then with a brandy Made from the sweet odds and ends
Of his grandmother’s orchard, until Dizzy with invincibility, and eager To brag about her bliss, she explained Her husband’s uniqueness, and when Her husband’s friend demonstrated What he too possessed, she discovered An absence of appropriate defenses. They met in the fields every night For a week, and she saw more stars Than she thought she could bear. When her husband returned, she blurted Her victorious truth, and in anguish Her spouse–-a youth, but a saint!–-explained He had actually been born with twin Appendages, and so not to be selfish Had given one to his careless friend. Whereupon his wife began to weep And pummel his chest with her fists, Crying “Idiot! Why did you give him The one that was best!?” flinging Away her ring, that token of his skin.
3 comments:
Work is in progress
On how bifurcation of the phallus
Led to a bride's wild confusion
And a bridegroom's mute distress.
Meanwhile, do inform Dino
How he too was once abdominal
And phenomenal until successfully
Dislodged. Studying Clawfoot's
Iconic probiscus, one's obliged
To conclude that someone you knew
Drove or collided headfirst
With a Dodge. When fears, as such,
Are nominal, they're poetic and nutritious.
But actual, they're merely abominable,
The soul in ethereal, wordless paralysis.
Kudos to you, smart tootsie-wootsie,
Whose soul, O ganders, loves verbal, visual
And visceral baloney, and therefore flies!
PUTTING IT MILDLY
Wanton, be thou the porcelain,
Luminous and triumphant dolphin
Of my gong-tormented, dong-tormented
Sea, in love with every freak
Of utterance and desire, a boy
I knew when I was nine
Who used his cunningly cleft thumb
To disentangle fishing line,
Which craves, like words, or worms
On hooks, a temporary lack
Of meaning, so someone can take it,
Shake it, come awake again,
Either to live or die, and lie gasping,
Mortally amazed, half mammal,
Half fish. Wanton, a flying squirrel
Seizes your girdle, its nose
Nestled in your navel, it body
Your blurred escutcheon, its tail
Cleaving your cloven thighs. Once
An innocent bride was disquieted
To discern at first a pale, grimly
Slotted plum angering to emerge
From the prepuce of her chum,
Hitherto gentle and decorous,
Who now explained softly his shame
At this phenomenon, purple, almost
Marble, and unique to him
In his experience among men,
But if she promised to maintain
His secret, he’d demonstrate
How they could use his peculiar
Deformity for unimaginable fun,
Which they did, and for quite awhile
The Innocent Bride, now a wife,
Wandered the village, shopping,
Laundering and so forth, aglow
With an enigmatic, pickerel smile,
Which attracted her husband’s
Closest friend when the former
Was away for a month on business,
Who plied her then with a brandy
Made from the sweet odds and ends
Of his grandmother’s orchard, until
Dizzy with invincibility, and eager
To brag about her bliss, she explained
Her husband’s uniqueness, and when
Her husband’s friend demonstrated
What he too possessed, she discovered
An absence of appropriate defenses.
They met in the fields every night
For a week, and she saw more stars
Than she thought she could bear.
When her husband returned, she blurted
Her victorious truth, and in anguish
Her spouse–-a youth, but a saint!–-explained
He had actually been born with twin
Appendages, and so not to be selfish
Had given one to his careless friend.
Whereupon his wife began to weep
And pummel his chest with her fists,
Crying “Idiot! Why did you give him
The one that was best!?” flinging
Away her ring, that token of his skin.
It's true, I am so multimedia. As for PUTTING IT MILDLY, how heartbreaking!
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