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Churning Chyme Vogon Poetry
If stars could see the sun~
slurping the grunglethorp grains
from sweat-soaked streams,
purging puddles of blurmorgris,
you’d hear the phazephonyx symphony
of my intestines churning chyme
into acidic rhymes~
releasing piled pain upon
a peezling palette of biled ballads.
But why are the whistling whirls
tangled in throttled thickets,
weeping amidst the periwinkle werifesteria,
grooving to the garglesome wind
that suffocated the cartilage
within the dry throat of wilderness~
ready to lure purple, perplexed pupils
to the reeking ruins of once upon
a rosy rendezvous,
where picturesque polaroids
of thanatophobic thistles
fear the pungent aroma
of decayed desires~
drenched in the stale shadows
of whiskey specters,
cloaking wisteria wishes
fluffed with puffs of fluorescent fleur,
designing a sky dressed
in the darkest dews of rainbow rhinestones.
So let the grotesque seeds
of passion-fruit moon
embrace the fossilized fragrance
of fated flames,
flickering mercuric beams
splattering grubblortz
sherbet of seven stars,
for between the rising of blortmusk blurs
and setting of fermented fog
you will see the light~
awakening the parietal lobe
of cracked constellations,
merging rivers and lakes
like the calloused corpus callosum,
while mumbling gibberish in
sheer eloquence…
If to live,
I shall master the sticky sails
across saccharine deceit,
I will forever steer
letters glazed with remnants of pests
to land in a canvas of magnified grey matter,
an embodiment of an aesthetic disaster.
A stoic
shall wear
it like a smuggled soldier,
masquerading eclipsed heartbeats
with crystal-clear
carpe-diem calligraphies,
until the sun and moon forget
the putrid recipe
of a philosophical ponderer,
waltzing through
corridors of cathartic crumble,
frogs cradling crashed
comets dusted with cosmic chemicals
regurgitating unicorn droppings
and cavalry waste.
Copyright ©
Ink Empress
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