What is this?

I go away just past a day
The board erupts in rime!
Now if I may I'll have my say
(to un-lose all this time).

Since I've been gone an on-ee-on
has stirred up Charles' bowels,
Joe's Freudian fun has been undone
by Beaton's fishy fowls,

and Terese's booth served up untruth
(I have the smoking gun)
For Roger, sooth, has got no tooth!
(page ten - last post less one)

A Rogerian Concession

It’s good to know
That Roger’s so filled
With sweetness and light
He broods with his bird.

It’s kindness to show
The soft tongue can build
What beak can then bite
Until the hen’s stirred.

(For this cup of Joe
The best milk is spilled
With honeys at night
When coo serves for word.)

TN, you seem to have assumed
The gypsies' booth was mine;
I merely theorized that gypsies'
Balls were sybilline

Enough to be consulted for a
Reading as to which
Of brainy, candid, sentimental,
Roger holds the niche.

Terese

<font >Odelette to the Literalist Critic

He's looking for Grapenuts™ in the stewpot;
he's thinking of gales on Oberon—
he's probably going to open the hood
when he oils the wagon he travels upon.

(Sometimes he feels a shudder sleeping;
sometimes he hears a ghost that stares;
sometimes he ponders a quantum theory
while shitting bricks under oaks by bears.)

You'd think he has given his heart to Satan;
you'd look for hope that Satan's just fiddling—
you'd certainly like to trust in his mood,
but his ass and his ears collude. (He's middling.)






[This message has been edited by Curtis Gale Weeks (edited December 08, 2002).]

Oubliette for the Paperless Poet

He's looking for onions in the chamber pot;
he's thinking of gales from under ‘im—
he's never going to close his mouth
but chew on his matter, smut on his chin.

(Sometimes he feels a ripper coming;
sometimes he whiffs at his own odors;
sometimes he poses en toilette
while sniffing at fingers for readers.)

You'd can’t believe his saint self-image;
you can’t believe in his ebullience—
you wish his mother’d done her job,
accessing Roe v. Wade. (Such brilliance.)

Onionette of the Flautist Scholar

He's thinking of piping his better's pot;
he's looking for junipers on the moon—
he's surely aware his weed will rot,
given the matter, if not too soon...

(Sometimes he feels a garlic swooning;
sometimes he sniffs his mother's glue;
sometimes he blows his high-pitched crooning,
while sniffling lingers and tears accrue.)

You'd swear his reed was limp with spit;
you'd wonder why he used a reed—
you'd love his musical theory if it
weren't dopey and sleepy and sneezy. (Indeed.)

The Barman Chucks a Wobbly

This pom, a lair, he wants a stubby.
Gives the Australian salute
But pervs, wearing just togs, a lippy.
(The mappa Tassie showed right through it.)

She sees a doodle who’s got heaps,
Gives him a pash. Says, “Waggin school?”
“There goes a queer to root,” I quips.
“Now say, come off the grass, you dill.”

But amber fluid or no, a joey
Can't get a curtsey from the dog.
It's all just piss and vinegar
For weeks on end. I'm still agog.

Agog, you say? How much agog?
I come and read much blather;
The latest 'bout a pissing dog
(or pissing joey, rather).

Now on the eve of Christmas Eve,
though it might be unfitting,
I will suggest the dog should rest
and we should start a flyting.

So raise your dukes and your rebukes
and start the insults flying
and Santa Claus will give applause
(or lumps of coal for trying).

[This message has been edited by Kevin Andrew Murphy (edited December 23, 2002).]

Happy New Year one and all!
Even though we’ve had the ball
tossing back and forth,

wonder if we’ve lost our thirst;
we’ve not ’parteed since the first
signs of winter’s worth.

Been around, more on than off,
weathered through that choking cough.
How about you folks?

Spring is coming any day
think we’d have a lot to say
–certainly some jokes!


April Fools’ anyone?

Young versifiers frequently seem less intense,
fleshing metaphors with sexual innuendoes,
and sound like young 'uns tinkering with new Nintendos,
but reveal a longing for sated concupiscence.