so much depends
upon
a bacon-clad
hussy

glazed with honey
*SPURT*

beside the white
defibrillator.

(The bacon clad hussy themed parodies are funner with the works of William Williams)

See, you’re brilliant.

I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of bacon and Cheez-its made;
Nine bacon-clad hussies will I have there, a sty for the pinkest piggy,
And live alone (with my hussies)in the pink-loud bacon shade. 

And I shall have some meat there, sweet fats come dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the hussies to where the bed-springs sing;
There midnight’s all a greasy glimmer, and noon a purple meaty glow,
And evening full of the lusty fleshy things. 

I will arise and waddle now, for always night and day
I hear the thighs a slapping with lust for meat and more;
While I stand on the roadway, fearing my hussies grow gray,
I hear it in my trouser’s core.

K-cup coffee tastes
a wee burnt today. Uh-Oh
Reli’ble, no more?

This Is Just to Say
by Murdered Duchess Williams

I have eaten
the bacon-clad hussies
who were in
the bed

and whom
you were probably
saving
for Saturday’s orgy

Forgive me
they were luscious
so greasy
and so pink

Poems sprout
like brussel sprouts
or a pink snout
or a torrent of water
after a three week drought

poems simmer
like tiny dimmers
under the surface
they demand service
to be immortalized,
dignified and tantalized

in verse most appealing
but alas! the herd of pigs are a’squealing
as they descend on their late master
now fallen to disaster
A fine supper he’ll make
yes, make no mistake

Your porcine friends want you dead
and those tiny dimmers will fuck with your head
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down
And death shall have no dominion.

It’s poetry month
Poems sprout in the nook like
Something or other.

(to the tune of Tiny Bubbles)

Tiny dimmers
In the world
Make LP scared
A nightmare unfurled

Tiny dimmers
Smart-assed beasts
With a feeling they’re gonna
Rise like yeast

So here’s to the subliterate dimmers
And here’s to the gorgeous ones too
And mostly here’s a cynaide pill
To escape a world gone so askew.

Found poem no. 2: the junk mail edition

Wait.
I have another small favor to ask.
I will need
certain marking a finger
each day with soot
until all fingers are . . .

I had no brothers.
I never think about women except
one at a time in Admiral-

I do admire you, I said,
standing and turning to the intent
pleased to know that we will now give
our first public performance.

Absolutely, Floyd!
With their protection we need not feel insecure. stilled, silent-dead?
there to the deadline?
walking around here.

But before you answer that-
who do you think the Floyd had
a large and ugly pistol in his hand now
which didnt slow
Sort of a circle
with an arrow sticking out of it.
Most popular.
Best choice too since it had
an all male lyric.

Loud a semicircle.
They were all filled now
with the oldest collection of you,
develop you,
enrich you.

Welcome, welcome, to the first day of dear sir! You must assure me that
this gets to
Professor Van Diver
at

See?
He’s that
memorable.

I don’t know Dane Cook.
I’ve seen Mystery Men but
don’t remember him.

I’m just curious:
Does anybody really think
Dane Cook is funny?

He who boasted
Gets roasted.

A man-- penis quiet quite enormous
Went took his PCP seeking solace
The doctor said ‘No trick
Just lay out your prick
Oh my god that’s the biggest cock I’ve seen in my lifetime!”

are the quoted parts from somewhere?

Yeah, I lifted ‘em from a wikipedia page on the devil’s tongue. Modal verbs section.

A warm afternoon, everyone moves slowly. Mrs. Brown comes through the door, up alongside the sausage, the tripe, the chops.
- Hullo Mrs. B. What can I get for you today?
- My Hoover has broken it’s belt.
- That’s a shame do you have a spare?
- No, that’s why I’m here. It’s a Hoover Junior Commercial, Model number 320. I couldn’t make out the serial number.”
- Well, that should be enough. I mean, belts are belts, aye?
- Aye but they don’t make them anymore. Not like they used to.
- Well, Arnotts is just down the road a little. They can probably help you.
- Arnotts? Don’t you Arnotts me. I remember when that was Hourstnes.
- Do you have any meat needs Mrs. B.? I’d hate to hold you up.
- I need a belt for my Hoover, the old one broke.
- Yes, you told me about that. It’s a shame. but would you like any meat, sausage, anything like that?
- Will they fit?
- Fit?
- My Hoover needs a belt. It’s broken it’s belt. It’s a Hoover Junior Commercial. I got it from my mother when she died. I guess it’s had a good run. But it’s a good Hoover, when it works.
- Yeah, I’m sure they’ll be able to help you. A belt is just a belt after all.
- Where do you keep your belts?
- We don’t.
- Why not?
- We’re a butcher shop.
- Who would want to buy a butcher?
- How about some mince? Or a steak and kidney pudding? It’s over ready.
- Yes, but I only roll it around really, there’s not much dust these days.
- Ah ha.
- All the weans are gone. The little bird next door too. Maybe it migrated with them? In my day, it was only the ruffians who got shipped off.
- Look, maybe I can get a minute off here and take you to the store where they might sell belts.
- Oh! That’s right! I need a belt for my Hoover. There’s all this dust. Thanks youngster, I’d have forgotten!
- Do you remember if you needed anything from us?
- I suppose I must. Let me think. Are you Louise Butcher’s son?
- No, I’m not a relative.
- She always had to have her hair on, that one. For the Yanks. Always hair. She had real stockings, not gravy. We never spoke well of her behind her back.
- Yeah, like I said, I’m not related.
- You have her hair though, don’t you?
- I think hair expresses the soul of the hair wearer. But my hair is my own.
- May I touch it?
- I suppose, just take care with it.
- Oh my!

That’s really nice Stubby - are the quoted parts from somewhere?

This isn’t a poem, has has no rhyme, no meter—no matter.

An old woman walks along a deserted street.
It is cold, she pulls her coat around her.
The wind plays with her, rips the coat away.
“Bastard!” she whispers to herself, rebuttoning.
She’s home.
Home home home.
She plans her next trip.

He speaks, on his face there’s a sad little frown
"A no can come the day"
He blames the booze and drugs for keeping him down
” A uised tae coud dae it, but no nou “
Despite the depth of his despair, he does not drown
"A micht coud come the morn"

There once was a young man named stubby
Who found fat outgrowth on his tummy
So he put on sweat pants
and didn’t give a fuck.

Nothing’s worse
than erse
in verse

Ode to a lass with in itchy bottom:

Fue heavens hen sit doon, settle
whit could it be that maks ye wriggle
Is it the cauld, saint vitus dance
or public lice in your underpants?

We’re here at church I must implore you
Do not show me your itchy aers in aw it’s glory.

Noo watch, it nips, in angers her dearly
These beasties in the hair so curly
Lady, shall I beat them with a stick?
‘tis least I can do, the came frae ma prick.

I mean

I sit here impressed
with your ode-ing skills.  The
poetry nook lives!

That is some impressive ode-ing, y’all.

I think it was Borges who said that the modern man is too cynical for epics
I have his collected works in a badly cut version on my bedroom table. I read him with Quixote when I have nothing better to write. And Bierce. Good taste there LHW.

Ode to myself:

Sweet heavens, you awake each day
Why do you refuse to enter the fray?
Stand tall, proud as your ancestors did!
To that I reply: “You kid?”

Why does the Scottish nation
Live in such a situation
as to continue decline
Theirs, the worlds, and mine?

You live with class
You refuse to break
-- that glass.

You celebrate the worst of things:
Robert Burns and Fairy Wings.
You isolate a tiny nation
overstating your poor station.

360 days a year of rain
364 days a year of pain, of shame
You stood against the bastard English
But over time your fierceness it did diminish.

A place in Europe you could have had
Had you not acted obscure, idiotic mad
The world laughs at you
Not with you. At you.

Can you ever stand again
Against a fowl and bitter claim?
To culture, fairy fights and preposterous
Issues long resolved since being discovered.

Awake again you giant
but by better thoughts become compliant
with a world anew
That barely gives a shit of you.

To the lassies fare
Their beauty for all to share
To the heroes
Living life as a continual dare.

The nation falls below the sea,
Blue Fire thought shall not claim me.
I will live long and true
And wish your sport will renew.

You live in a class society
you ignore possibilities for anxieties
you hate progress, you hate tories
but tell again, my homeland
-- some interesting story.

Ode to a network engineer at a fruit company

Oh, wee feart and trembling network engineering beastie
oh what a panic is in thy breastie?
Could it be the network is down
Or as your undergartments now, are brown?

One should not chance one would not do
to use DRWATT and DRWHO
As Write and Read SNMP strings
through and through.
your entire corporate wings
could easily become screwed if such information
made it’s way, public perchance
in an ode, a love song or a dance?

For those who with my speech are incapable of comprehending
the simple networking protocol message I am sending
If you talk to any router,
at, say a fruit company, 17
saying only you are DRWHO
You can see and play and do.
But change you you cannot!
You are not able
My public string I write disable.

But watt would happen doctor dear
were my private SNMP string be in the clear?

A malicious beastie with such information
could mak muckle sure th’ packets that you are sending
never at their destination, ending.
Instead they be but piped to nil.
Thy Cheif Executive it may not delight
And shareholders shout Unfair! and Strife!
To see a might corporation fall
from such a simple word at all.
Perchance then dear lord Steven’s quill
shall on a page these words devices:
“Will no-one rid me of these fools,
idiots and dullards; some complete tools!
I must I will shall have their heads
Those who made this nasty horrid mess.
And tell you what while you are at it
may I see their managers, smartesh?”

And woe was spread by word of mouth:
it was not me, it wisnae us!
we did nothing was the cry!
“All too often” many sigh.
but what a blather oh what a lather
see in that corner?
A wee mouse looks at you delighted.

“I’m management material” the cry was heard
from gallows erected smartish
for those who manage up, not down
and upon technical knowledge frown
thy brow now furrowed, head laid down
A noose of ethernety cable perhaps you are able
to but an end to this nonsense
and also, perhaps, your existence?

Are CNA’s required for heaven?
Or is it simply favors given
in backroom deals by rouges and knaves?
‘twixt apples and the big blue routers.
or perchance you are the other way departed
dearie me, has someone farted?

The sweet air of the earth you squandered
noses up each others trouses
Is now returned
- a mouse departed.

Though corporate apples they may fall
and workstations barely work at all
your retail network it shall shine
for on this principle it was baseted:
thou shall not do thy job half-arsed.

So sell on sell on you wee devices
tailless now your little mouses
I do hope you know -quick- what to do
With Doctors, Messrs, WATT and WHO.

I think it was Borges who said that the modern man is too cynical for epics.  Nevertheless.. here is my most humble ode to the thing I cherish.

The Epic of the Lamp

"We shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender. “
--Winston Churchill

Man is not equipped to withstand war,
nor stand against a woman’s fire.
His hopes are ‘oft dashed against the rocks,
found dead and thrown upon the pyre.

“My soul is forfeit, my life is bleak”,
say men in situations dire.
So this for one who lived a woman’s scorn,
an epic song with lute and lyre.

Yes, they called this hero Lord Henry,
I’m sure you have all heard the name.
His woman was a fearful creature,
With eyes that brought the bold to shame.

Their’s was a time of violence and fear,
of hard fought battles lost and won.
For a home they had bought together,
and one could say the “deed” was done.

The pair settled their newfound kingdom,
and two separate camps were drawn.
She set to work furnishing the house.
He began to tend to the lawn.

And lo, two distinct fiefdoms sprang forth
into this wild and virgin land.
The woman claimed space aggressively,
soon his lines were drawn in the sand.

The medicine cabinet had been laid waste,
feminine hygiene ruled the roost.
Upon the bedroom, bathroom, and den
estrogen fueled decor was loose’d.

A small, lonely bastion of manhood
was all that was left to Lord Hank.
His library, lovingly tended
as a rose garden atop Mont Blanc.

‘Till one day the noble lord brought in
his treasured lamp of sublime light
and she, through obstinance or envy
decided to pitch a hot fight.

“If you hang that hideous lamp up”,
said she with malice and with spite,
“I swear I will leave by the morn’!”
Then she slammed the door with “Good NIGHT!”

The die had been cast that fateful day,
Lord Henry Wotton saw his fate.
The enemy was there upon him,
they thronged en masse outside his gate.

“Wench! I’ll hang the lamp and call your bluff.”
his voice rose, rallying his side.
“You’re pig-headed, just like your mother!”
One could sense a shift in the tide.

She opened the door, called for parley,
the epic battle had been fought.
“Behold!” he said pointing to the lamp,
“See what your stubbornness has wrought.”

And there the lamp of justice still hangs
and its place has become a shrine.
For now we stand on equal footing.
What is hers is hers and mine, mine.

talented talon foot
found in a sea cave
on the canadian shore
belonged to a raptor
a hawk or an eagle
maybe an owl or erne
the coolest toy ever
pull on it’s ligament
a contracting claw
kept in my pocket
next to my slingshot
and my collectable rock
scaring young children
grossing out sisters
blackboards screech with delight
a constant companion
on fun-time adventures
bleeding from accepted dare
now long gone lost or stolen
by worried mother
or a jealous friend
“hon, want a back scratch?”
“no thanks” it just can’t compare
to my talented talon foot

Oh K-Cup Coffee Gun
It took me so long to find you.
I’ve had such fun
Watching as you spurt and blew
Hot coffee chunks into a paper cup
I used to hate this stuff
How wrong was I!
In the absence of crack or a buzz
I’ve found your product, initially gruff,
With five packs of splenda, sweet as pie.
Coffee talk with coworkers, though, gives me the huzz.
That will never die.

Bravo!

Disturbing yet amusing.

Found Poem

“and YOU simply wanted to club her over the head!  I told you this…

Early clincal rohypnol testing?

that’s what the pointy fingered dude in the middle is saying.  Either that, or…

“You and your filthy butt sex talk!  Look what you’ve done!”

Her computer overheated and fainted, and she had to bring the smelling salts. 

We shocked your computer? That’s almost as good.

You didn’t traumatize me any, but I had to restart my computer. Stupid computer.…

I think what’s amazing here is that she’s yet to be committed and/or imprisoned. …

“Has she been stilled?” actually this sounds more like, “Has she been bound and…

I think we’ve traumatized Lady P and her Catholic ears.

I think the idea is to be able to lodge larger and larger objects…

Well you have to, er, prepare the orifice to accomodate something that it normally…

I think the idea is to be able to lodge larger and larger objects…

Doesn’t that defeat the purpose?

stretching.

what a pretty child. the mom looks like she’s been trying to gnaw her…

What in heavens name does butt-theckth training involve?

lunchtime.

Got it! “Has she been stilled?”

yeah it is.  this particular one also had a father being lecherous with his…

I AINT GOING IN AFTER THAT

I have to pee but
There’s a lady been in there
Like five hours now.

How about a limerick I first heard in third-grade history class:

Whistle while you work
Hitler is a jerk
Mussolini bit his weenie
and now it will not work.

Ewwwwwwwwwwww.
Ewwwwwwwwwwww.
Ewwwwwwwwwwww.
Ewwwwwwwwwwww.
Stewwwwwwwwww.

Oh, my sphincter
is stinky
and round
when it contracts
it makes a neat sound
when it relaxes, I never ask why
I get a porcelain bowl
of soupy surprise

It is the day after Christmas
And all through the town
Every news reporter is stating,
“Christmas Retail was down.”

And then in public service
They are proud to announce.
“Perfumes are on sale!
Only $49 per ounce!”

I turn on the radio,
The weather forecast to hear.
But the weatherman’s by Macy’s
Yelling “On Sale, it’s here!”

The television images
Show shoppers a’scurrying.
“Great bargains,” they yell.
“You too should be hurrying!”

It shows me the cancer
That has spread over our land.
Journalism, business, and government
All walk hand in hand.

gloveshot

I AM BORED.
Fictional man in red:
the news tracks him
In real time, his sled
over Paris, London,
Longitude 58 degrees.
More ahead.

Nostalgia: the same
Monster that gave us lame
Coca-Cola ads. I crave
an old fashioned crime wave.
Sure, call it news.
But funny name to use.

Tomatoes year ‘round -
the man on TV says so.
Esme knows better.

Blogging was so fun.
McCain said to police it.
Now it’s fines, fines, fines.

Also, I didn’t know I was such a poet, Flock
I really do like
them, Agriope. And the one
written ten-ish too.

I Still Like Them
Tell her she’s dead wrong.
Haikus sound like raindrops on
A rusting tin roof.

Okay so maybe
a few too many and you
want to kill someone.

Wife endures haiku
as she tries to get to sleep.
Yawns, “They are okay.”

The fat don’t suffer.
Too round for any hardship.
My bigotry shows.

A cold night. Perfect!
My soup is warm but it stinks.
Dingleberry Stew.

When I take off the fifth sweater,
I’m freezing.
When I wear the fifth sweater,
I feel like an obese bear.

Dreams born of fear:
I sent a sparrow
to fight a dragon.
Neither survived,
but I was safe.

But not for long.
As long as I live
I can’t help supply
the enemy they
need to survive.

For without me
they would soon die too,
taken off their thrones
by their own kind;
torn by the hordes.

They raise martyrs;
we raise our heros;
both end in red mist
and always fire.
And both sides weep.

I think this means I have a problem.
Last night at the bar
I promised PJ
I’d come back next week
Saturday, you know,
Um, for my birthday.

He said he’d reserve
The big table. Then
He, at seventy,
kissed me. On the lips!
Hell yeah, I kissed back.

PJ, bartender,
has now reached a base
The three guys with me
Will never get to.
The heat, I feel it.