| |
Roast of An Unnamed Poet
He's packin' magic Viagra
Muse infused grooves set the mood
grab ya' and stab ya'
we're opposites
still we speak the same language
teach and preach truth
every time I stop to see what he's droppin'
my dang pen commits sin, flips a lid
ink pours, runs down the paper like Jill Abramson did the NY TIMES
just in time verse transfers kinetic energy
activating a semantic force field
formulating symbiosis through synergy
swimming in puddles of puns
changing sans rays into rays of sun
you can hear bums humming metonym hymns from the Twin Cities to Tuscan
igniting a revolution of prostitutes and hooligans on hallucinogens to scoot
loose from futons
learn to earn and swim with loose Louis Vuitton boots on
whacked out kids from Pakistan with crack in hand hear his pen
and pack into Shaggin' Wagon vans to kick up sand and
do their dance and just hold hands
the whole globe huggin' like cousins
uncovering hovering heteronomy mysteries evading lexicographers throughout
centuries of history
he's teaching wide eyed chicks to utilize polysemy by demonstrating thermal
viscosity rates of his balls and prick
my mental lexicon is spinning
so I'm sinnin' then I'm grinnin' and grabbing inflatable girlfriends over for
dinner then dessert to be followed immediately by frenzied poetic circle jerks
I must admit the fabric of his hyperbole allegoristic-ally makes me
wanna on·o·mat·o·poe·ia in my pants and break into a hyper pole dance!
he's coordinating conjunctions
box munching at the junction
whole heartedly gets retarded with descriptive hard-ons
vast array of play-on words for you ladies to chew on
verse for verse
inch for inch
tit for tat
this and that
hot and heavy with romance
enough to make a man wear a hard hat
there inside the high rise
under construction in the pants
damn Mister (CENSORED), atta-boy!
and though I'mma boy with no vagina, boy
(you don't mind if I call you mister by design there boy?)
Man, the images your tongue twisters send
I must commend and admit
if you had a different rear end...
then WO'-man
I might have to apprehend your ass with my ten inch night stick, oh hell, it's
just past a hard seven, but who's countin' man?
As you see poetry is a curse conjuring harmful words of demonic proportions
reading your scriptures' depictions interrogatively tells me these inscriptions
are precisely the prescription I need to erect the sword which could ultimately
lead to seismic abortions...dang...
Did I just type that?
Copyright ©
Jslambert Mister Roboto
|