Oh gaseous anomaly, of my digestion
Escapage from where, is the question
A topic of much fun, hilarity and jest
School boys compete, to see who's is best.
Velocity, decibels, and length of time.
All vital in assessing, if it's sublime.
But pinnacle of fustiness has to be.
Sprout, egg sarnies and over ripe brie
In conclusion a fart is truly an art
Enjoy it, embrace it, have a good fart.
Categories:
fustiness, appreciation, child, fun, humor,
Form: Rhyme
Sometimes, it descends like a warm night breeze
A blanket. At once comforting and disturbing...
The sense knocks. A vague, uneasy membrane just outside of feeling
Too many years, too far along
Too much water under so many bridges
The house changes, transmogrified from cosy fustiness into something altogether sadder
It carries weight, occupies space, colours the green screen
Perhaps we are all just blank black books waiting for an author
Categories:
fustiness, art, character, confusion,
Form: Alliteration
The most innocent of things
Gave him ideas—
The Good Will painting, gifted by his grandfather,
Of the succulent lady
Slurping up mussels
Sitting upon her bustle
At the sea food bar—
Russell
Referencing him, one townsperson would say
You don’t walk your cat like a dog
And another,
But you can’t put up a privacy hedge—thieves love that!
While one of the church girls maintained
He only needed to fix his teeth. Then one Saturday
The preacher’s wife offered she’d heard
His blue Buick had been parked beside Adult Books
Out on the highway . . .
He caused quite a fuss—
Russ
Police couldn’t find anything on him
But everyone knew
In the fustiness of brusque—
Russ
Not ***** enough for politically correct
Nor expressly pedophile to warrant an arrest—
Just the Town Pervert no one could trust—
Russ
The villagers came to believe
That when a sly autumn turns to pumpkin orange
A full moon’s blush
And leaves rust—
Russ
In the deepening dusk
A lone man heads for trouble—
Russ
Categories:
fustiness, america, judgement, life, loneliness,
Form: Free verse
I long for these ancients to speak to me
but we have rescued them from the world of the dangerously alive
and plummeted them into a vast pyramidal tomb sealed with wax.
It is a tomb of glass, where the preserved fustiness of eras past
can slowly shed any traces of the epithelial cells that crafted them.
I see the painted sarcophagus, but not the Pharaoh
only the ghost of the one who painted its symbols and hieroglyphs.
A few spatters of red paint encrusted on her face, the smell of oils,
a reward of coins, a night of victorious cries of pleasure,
and in the morning, a mere woman checking the alabaster jars so
her unused paint would not dry to powder like the Pharoah’s blood.
Categories:
fustiness, history, mystery, time,
Form: Free verse