Who wouldn't want to be raised by a wolf?
--Dean Young, "Ghost Gash"
There you go. That's my idea of what rebellious teenage wolf clothing looks like. In real life, they're probably dressing up in hypersexualized shepherdess costumes, but guess what? My skills have limits.
4 comments:
O HOSTESS TEA
I can not tell you
What a vagina is like,
Only that most
Are varieties of pink
That make me salivate
Mimetically, and then
Like them, unable
To think. Meanwhile
The savage atrophy
Of your wolf-girl’s
Lower jaw and her
Fetching overbite
Assuredly come from
Thucking on her paw,
Which causes in a feral
Feme an irremediably
Thoft medial palate, a lithp
Or vaginal metonymy,
But whatever you do,
O Hostess Tea,
Don't confuse me with
Alfred Lawn Tennyson and ilk.
Vide Infra:
I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood,
Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red edges,
The red-ribb'd ledges drip with a silent horror of blood,
And Echo there, whatever is ask'd her, answers, 'Death'.
"Maud"
The old boy was deaf and owned most of the Isle of Wight, which he wandered with a blackthorn shilelagh hunting trespassers and trailed by servants in the pay of his weary sons with money to quiet the outrage of birdwatchers, anglers, earnest nudists and amorous picnickers, Tennyson discovered and wildly abused, then
went home and composed torturous slant rhymes.
They don't think, he says! My mother balanced equations with hers, and I use mine to remember the average rainfall in the Amazon Basin.
MOIRE
Who’d dream of calling
A vixen dumb,
But does she know,
Except vaguely,
Where her pee
Comes from,
Or if Sally Rand
Behind feathers
She wove into fans,
Wore a flesh-tinted
Sock, or danced
Sleek and naked
And offered to error
An ocular chance,
Black hair in bright
Sun with its pale onion
Sheen, or burnt ginger
And the brush of a fox.
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