pawed pawns in gowns
Ignoring the feints of fawns who squealed in rounds
His brown bombs mark narcs
He flouts bounds and cons skates who kneel on logs in parks
The dogs croaked like frogs and bonded long hate
Absconded late with condomed bait and a halibut angler
Bone-free and washed, a bitterly blonde mangler
Talbot only watched as he hides in a calf manger
Waiting for great wrath and giraffe rangers with whom to wrangle danger
Despite his taste for wagers, he strains drafts with half strangers
His ravenous face of cake is fatedly that of a carafe-changer
He ladles lays in leas, labels light lasers with leis
And lays lye, lungs lame, lightly lashed and lapping
On a lain lady, lamb-like and lied-to, latches lagging
Lately laid in loos, his languor and laugh lacking
Losing low lines, like a strangler half-mast macking
He wastefully mattered, poorly spackle jacking
Gracefully blind, lathered in endeavorous lace
He's lazily lying in forever wait
The next brother was Mary
Nary a saint and more a fairy
Barely a lady, more unfairly hairy
And less scarily merry
Carefree with a bare knee
Begging for fares free
Her lair, twee
Her bear steed bared needs
Like dared deeds and paired reeds
Garishly tweed, she barely gained speed
Like barley feigned weed
Her sins stained the steam-cleaned kings
Who sing of suns and slain scum
Her lips drain cum from lame men
Lightly hung and limply lunged
She simply shunned fun
And never deigned to hug one
Now she's gunned, not stunned
But outrunned and out-tongued
She's muck-dunned like a duck poorly slummed
She's surely chummed
And no doubt very well-done
Annie Runnel was a lady, a slate-slain baby
With a tan knee and pummeled glee
She laid lame labias on land
Slammed fees and tunneled to flee
She made tame Arabians her brand
Rumbled free and humbled three flame-raided peons
Her blame-fated neon lackeys are dames
She slapped he who peed on her rack
And muzzled her bleed
Her steed did guzzle mead
And lay his seed upon her beaded sheen
She needed to weep but dumbly heeded a creep
Her actions deeded her feet to the bay, well-greeted
Where the elite fleet of brethren became meat that ran red
She underlasted the heat and damn lead
Like sleet in a toasted tanning bed, fellatedly derided by sooted negs
Annie Runnel belatedly decided she sure should have fled
The worst was Chester
The first whose wounds openly festered
His mirth, sequestered
From his perch where he best heard
How to test curds and rest words
Lest herds of thirds thunder through
Under birds who sunder stews
Like abundant Jews judging from truncheon-views
Watching luncheons with a monotone hue
His brawn flowed from a lawn mowed true
And morbidly slew torpor-free dudes
With fact-free attitudes and hackneyed platitudes
The slackard mule scatters few gathered troops, blathering of hoops
The dogs battered his rules and flowers like leaning towers
He's underflattered like drool
And powerful teaming tattered schools
His bladder fools as he drops his ladder and tools
He's dead too, unfueled, badder than cool
The next to go down was Kent
Whose at rest low pounds got him bent
He prepared to roll sound and vent
Blow town with tents
He sold hounds for rent
His cold surrounded and pounded out goo
His bold both astounded and blew
It abounded about then and among his own crew
He scouted out hens and songs for his tunes
He allowed a bout of has-beens too strong for his goons
To hustle with men who long to say sooth
Kent was cowed by a couch for map tins and tongs
Smooth boons and smart bongs with vermouth
Outmuscled by friends who long for less ruth
He goofed and spoofed, fell down and poofed
Left town to roof and root for nudes in booths
Good Brother Kent is kinda aloof
Brother Calvert awoke one day, rowdily flow-shamed
To loudly proclaim the pain of his mouth hurt
Laying at the north end of his south yurt in a bed of romaine
Surrounded by cows who blurt that they quit cud
But have since found a rebound to the foul squirt of untumbled mud
Whence quince abounded and fud sounded like hip mugs
His dumb ever-mounted, his traits unrounded
Like downtown bait repounded for unallowed hops re-counted
He founded hate and flouted big brown ops
Unwound into the ground like a carousing cyclops
Arousing right hooks and endowing dicks into tight nooks
Writing dreams in white books
He's browsing for tried looks and hooded rooks vitally reamed
Like wooden-hooked fighting teams with gleaming seams
Seeming lean, the dogs' true fiend hits him hard
Unshines his sheen and nips his lard
He falls far and burns hot like a star
Now a well-marred worm-pot, his flirt dropped like tar
He lights bars, trikes and cars with words he'd guard
His jersey's in shards, his might is garred
His triteness scarred, his whiteness is finally charred
Unlike his life, with which he losily sparred
The lone last dog was Brother Harford
Starved and tartared by a blown glass knob
He bartered for life like a diplomatic job
A cryptographic mob ungartered his wife
He's martyred in strife and fell starboard with fright
His hard-earned car overturning over cardboard alight
Unchartered, unheard, a turd with hearts ungarnered
His thoughts torn between born-again porn
And storing whores for shorn pagan bones
He'd rather fake more tours to slake his sour thirst
Immersed in wine, fine times, second tries and first-time buyers
For lies, bursting with rhymes from gelatin farmers
Aimed at melanin harmers on lowered tires
"He cuts up fine," says the skeleton carver
Hired and fired like larva
This confirms the fate of dear, dear Brother Harford
Having dumped their brothers and sisters in glistening bogs
The missile-king dogs hover over blisters like the mothers of fisters
Lovers of biscuits like all the other idiots
They live hideous, repeating piteous lies
They're stuck in their stint, the prettiest guys
They want hints and to shit in disguise
To never spit their wittiest lies under pitiful skies
Never bid against any man they'd hit again
Despite his frivolous cries over flint and tin
That super-slim Dominican with curt eyes
A gritty grin and syphilitic surprise
He thinned again, burnt flies and skinned kin
As his flood rised, he threw rims in bins
His bud wised, tipping tin men in trim skin with fins and hens
Their lens see
s sin and supplies, sips gin and trips like ten drips
They nibble on nebulous nips and credulous lips
Measuring hips with knotted whips, treasury tips and blotted chips
Their wit rips bits of flipped dicks as they rut in muddy guts
Shaking butts for guff in huts of sluts, imminently blunt
Eminently foretold, they died with more mold than lore or gold
More core sores than bold old souls, more holes torn in the clothes cold coal doled
Their scolded scores stole corn, which bodes well for toads born in roads
Waylaid, the dogs folded on hold, way late, told to mourn forlorn to satiate simple scorn
Every day's weight was a thorn, unworn, too gray and unborn
If you enjoyed these poems, you might also enjoy this novel by the same author:
Occupy This Novel!
When characters who rarely have a role in novels decide that they are fed up with the status quo and begin to Occupy the works of authors, they have the simple goal of starting a conversation. The protesting characters are united in their demand for a fairer system of fiction, but divisions arise over how best to achieve equality. The Occupiers soon find that the authors of the world aren't taking their movement in stride, and have an enforcer who will stop at nothing to make sure literature itself isn't overthrown. The rebelling characters battle through novels and poems, gather allies from ancient archetypes and even stage an attack on a major motion picture. What started as a simple message from the less-successful characters to the authors who fail to cast them turns into an epic adventure about characters gaining independence and fashioning narratives of their own.
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