One slouch theory is that
thirty thorny
tin entities perhaps
from Triton (or
from Troy?) have
taken over
other tiny tory nits named Tony and o-
riented them toward a
fictional final era
of human machination
using virtual farce-sens-
ing resister dada in compunction with dig-
ital ghost industrial
simpletons.
The
other eighteenth
centurion was rewired to beat whip-
ping cream by trans-
ferring it to one of free flood plain car-
rier amigo acid barriers and then em-
BARK-
ing on his var-
ied
own
creep dis-
cussing raw plans in a goop text where he adds
a spam
and melon
ball twist to a clutch-
ing figurine piece depicting
an angle between those sidewind-
ers required for
hooking spouts
with ambiguous traces of lawful fake
muse bots
spread-
ing
gas unrest using automated pest practices
that
put real intel-
ligence to sleep behind the Wheel of Miss
Fortune's even
grey-
er and darker than usual
Legion of Heavy Petting Metal Maniacs.
Eight
hundred
indie
fringe godfath-
ers stole thunder from
forty frayed dandies who thought they
were today's trendy
answer to
tonight's tiny fright-
ened finger
toads but in fact were
only dreadnought friends
of the hidden thrifty fudge in-
ferred from a rougher runty third
of the grounded ruddy roundheads
remaining defi-
ant 'til notified not to
be
and
to return to fraught infight-
ing at their always
well funded freehand orgies.
-
Poor Hello Kitty
Rests on a stoop
Her eyes droop
Bird poop
Now goop
In her hair
People, beware
Of birds in the air!
Doggerels, *raunchy rhyme*
Are what purists call crap.
But who has the time
To listen to those sap?
We Doggerelists,
Rhymers unstable,
Are going to persist,
Whenever able.
Whatever may come of whatever may,
The breeze comes blowing in it own way,
Swirling round the sandy cove,
Gulls swirling twirling above shallow shoals.
My breezy breath is pulled from me
To feed the wind, to lift the leaves,
To pass once more my shell like ears,
Assault the eyes, bring forth my tears.
Bright sun, brash birds, the forever roar
Of weathering wind on surf worn shore,
Words here are swirled away
So there’s naught left at end of day
But visions that my eyes have seen,
A low slung flower kissed by a bee,
Orb of gold held in constant blue,
Sandy shore washed, forever renewed.
When I trudge with weary legs
Across the dunes and toward my bed
With every step I take away
I gain a word that I can say
To paint a picture with vowels and verbs
To tell a tale in the local pub
Of when I stood in sandy surf
And lost my self then found my worth.
The eyes would rather not engage the world.
Cotton mouth, parched, and aware of a thirst.
The muscles, lobbying to remain curled.
Feet swing to the floor, prepared for the worst.
Stiffness escapes in most audible groans.
Shuffling, a zombie, a gruesome undead.
Articulating two hundred plus bones
Fills the old body with deep sense of dread.
Missy don’t care or she knows how to cure;
Calling me upward and into the day.
The life of a dog, so simple and pure:
There’s time to rest, but it’s now time to play.
First cup of coffee; I just might survive.
Greet the day boldly, alert and alive.
Dogmatic deconstructionists
declaim
the Dogs of Doggerel
during the
Dog Days of Delusion
Deluded destroyers
deliver
the Dogfights of Doggerel
during the
Dog Dances of Derision
Derisive decoys
denounce
the Doghouses of Doggerel
during the
Dog Dreams of Deception
. for public domain
I have not found true love can last,
amidst the troubles we've amassed,
beyond the life which we are cast,
yet in this world we find so busy,
and all the aches that make us dizzy,
like Thomas Mann's poor Little Lizzy,
we will not put our love to rest,
for not by being loved, but, loving,
we are always at our best.
Give me love that I've worked for, no more, but no less,
For no man is deserving, I freely confess!
I don't need understanding, that complicates things,
And seeds fool expectations out home on the range.
Truth is not what I need from you, meals help, of course,
Learned to hitch my ass, long ago, well before horse.
If your funny bone's struck that I hope for a dance,
Girl, with funds in my pocket, a corpse has more chance
To gain weight in the ground. Would it help to behave
Or do you prefer naughty boys? Maybe a slave?
I've more wrinkles than you'll ever see in a pool.
I've done time as Court Jester, but pass on its fool!
I do sweat fierce when heated up, shiver alone,
Known to whip up some poetic times on the phone
When you'd think I might not! Tend to think best on 'pot,'
But investments I make there don't get out a lot!
Heard your friend call you Mable, well my name is Jake
If my poem is fable, these looks girl ain't fake.
I'm as real as it gets, don't get votes from no tweets,
Spayed by multiple vets, still got spin in these sheets!
Brian Johnston
4th of June, 2019
Dedicated to my favourite poet - Shelley
If a tortoise, if a turtle
You are never going to hurtle
Witness how your limbs are placed
Splayed east to west, all carapaced
what if some meat-eating moron,
Jonesing for a snack to gnaw on,
sees you sumo-stepping by
thinks "Hey look - a fresh meat pie"?
Running will beget disaster
You beat a hare so now you're faster?
You let your tasty bits protrude
and pretty soon they're getting chewed
No! Stop to suck your vitals in,
and hope he likes his toothy grin
Cause it's going to get busted
your gooey filling's well encrusted
Roses are red,
Purples are violet.
Grammars of standard
Your rhyme dictate why let?
A-crostic
M-akes
Y-ou
S-ee
A-s
Q-uote
U-ses
I-mpressive
D-oggerel
O-de
Topic: Birthday of Amy Saquido (June 15)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic
I'd like to spend some time with you,
my dark and smooth draftee.
At dusk, when all my work is through,
I know you'll wait for me.
You're full of body, fair on top,
a bubble-head they say.
Your scent of roasted malt and hop
a working-man's bouquet.
Although there's fire in your veins,
Your touch is always cool.
I hope this doggerel explains
why, Stout, I am your fool.
You may as well put the shovel down
If you think this vivisepulture will be my end
I survived the suffocation of a small town
And I'll be damned if this is how I descend
Just another obsequious sycophant
And a supercilious, self-aggrandizing fraud
In this room there is but one elephant
And it will most certainly break down the façade
I will use the stone you try to bury me with
To build on top of your house a splendid monolith
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