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Potato Ofterror Poem
The Terrible Ghastly Beastliness of
"THE POTATO CADAVER UNDEAD REVIVAL" (sonnet)
The Potato of Terror, April 24th 2002
They dug him up with a great pointed spade,
Awoke him from his rest of ninety years,
And O what a great bellowing he made,
And shook his fists, and twitched his pointed ears!
For there was much skullduggery afoot,
And horrid ghastly beastliness besides,
The Spud Maiden's Swan Song had taken root
Deep in his soul and tuberous insides.
Her tragic voice had roused the pixie throngs
Provoked the wrath of tuber overlords,
And small brown furry things in rubber thongs
Sprang to their feet and brandished tiny swords.
King Edwards, Caras! Hide your youngest sons!
A vast undead potato this way comes!
Copyright © Potato Ofterror | Year Posted 2014
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Potato Ofterror Poem
Flying Potatoes
By The Potato of Terror 28/3/05; revised 1/2/14
Flying potatoes permeate my days,
Float gently through the attic of my brain;
Winging their way through smoochy summer haze
And tapping tarantellas in the rain.
I want to romp where tuber dreams ignite,
Where pomp is caught with naughty circumstance;
I yearn to flit where reverie takes flight
And lunacy leads love a merry dance.
Flying potatoes infiltrate my nights,
Making me dream of all unnatural things;
Like evil gnomes in capes and fishnet tights
And Maris Pipers with great scaly wings.
Flying potatoes tell me "Be afraid!
We are such dreamers as would stuff a maid!" *
(*With apologies to Shakespeare)
Copyright © Potato Ofterror | Year Posted 2014
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Potato Ofterror Poem
From The Lost Book of Tuberlantis
(Translated from the Spudscrit by The Potato of Terror)
Retrieved Passage 1:
Prologue
Many leagues beneath the sea
where the flat-winged sloth skate flies
lie the million fossil eyes
of Tuberlantis: drowned city.
There tuber groovers, bright and bold
who once cross-dressed for star-crossed love
lie prone while freight ships pass above
they sleep in silt, like buried gold.
For all the laughter and the beers,
the long-lost camp, the gaiety
for buried lives of mystery
we weep for them, and droop our ears.
And Oh! The laugh like cackling loons
And Ah! The whip that downward swings
upon the tuber's broken wings
and scattered crumbs of macaroons.
Here lie the pages of a sage
who fought against becoming mad
who wrote the only thoughts he had
through fizzing fits and gnashing rage.
Retrieved Passage 2:
The Book of Days
They said to him it was unwise
it could not be pushed in that way
he nodded back, rolling his eyes
and went and pushed it anyway
The tubers all were sore dismayed
at such repentless recklessness
with such a coarse tool as a spade
by a King Edward in a dress
They hauled him to a prison cell
they made him eat cold plates of tripe
and pick oakum, in that dark hell
where budding criminals turn ripe
and so he wrote a Book of Days
to chronicle his suffering
with stolen ink and icing glaze
amid great huffs and muttering
he wrote it all on bedding sheets
and anything that came to hand
he hid it in his trouser pleats
hoping the world would understand
an erring artist's vanity
and descent into wicked ways
the slow collapse of sanity
that gave birth to The Book of Days.
Copyright © Potato Ofterror | Year Posted 2014
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Potato Ofterror Poem
Retrieved Passage 6:
From The Book of Days - The Cellar
Don't send me down to the cellar
I swear I won't do it again
lest my sanity goes inter-stellar
and I beat myself senseless in vain
Don't send me down to the cellar
there are things there that scuttle and crawl
there are gnomes there that sing a capella
and an evil old troll in a shawl
There are heebies and jeebies aplenty
who leave trails of slime on the stairs
and their brains are undoubtedly empty
and their long arms have unsightly hairs
So leave me my cape and umbrella
and my half-eaten poems of woe
don't send me down to the cellar
nurse, not again, let me go!
Retrieved Passage 7:
Overboard
"Potato Overboard!"
Came the loud mid-shipman's cry
the Potato King had fallen in
we hung him out to dry
dangling from the mainsail mast
festooned with swaying weeds
it cured his hangover quite fast
it usually succeeds
"Oh Your Majesty"
said his fair queen, in dismay
the gulls had eaten both his socks
and took his wig away
he was a spud of rangy height
wall-eyed, with lantern jaw
but now he was a sorry sight
as many times before.
"Potato Overboard"
was a common cry, those days
We never cured His Majesty
of rabid dipso ways
he would fall into bouillabaise
cow troughs, and out of ships
and always buy up hard liquor
on foreign shopping trips.
Retrieved Passage 8:
The Hour of Cool is Nigh
I came to chill
I came to mellow down
I came to groove about in a yellow gown
hey man, I want to shimmy like a yak
this is the hour I have my cool attack
I came to chill
I came to croon for lurrve
I came to give coolness a helping shove
hey maestro, hit the bass and timpany
this is the funk hour, in the Name of Me
Dressed to thrill
I came to chill this town
to say "one has to get up to get down"
I came to watch the bumble bees go by
hey give it up, the Hour of Cool is nigh.
Copyright © Potato Ofterror | Year Posted 2014
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Potato Ofterror Poem
Retrieved Passage 3:
From The Book of Days, Sonnet 2
For Lo! I must relate this tome to you
who gather here to listen and believe
to tell the story I believe is true
before my sanity (BARK!) takes its leave.
The Spuds in Exile traversed the terrain
wearing long dresses of the fine-spun silk
all travelling by sedan car and train
with their bright ears fresh-bathed in llama milk
and (UUUURRRGGHHH!!) such necklaces as seldom seen
made of gold-plated prunes and aubergines
graced the neck-less heads of brown and green
of these arcane potato libertines.
And (WOOF!) soon you must go and leave me here
for my time of insanity is near.
Retrieved Passage 4:
A Running Transformathon
Mutation comes: hair after little spiny hair
appears on palms and small akimbo knees
and he is wont to don dark leather underwear
and mumble backwards in dour blasphemies
The beer flows, the cape swirls, the spud appears
grinning like a satyr in the dark
with twin horns standing up like stabbing tuber spears
he's poised to lope and gibber in the park
Mutation comes: the cycle goes and comes again
when the moon's bright halo lights the sky
the spud goes skinny-dancing at your window pane
and howls along with every mad dog's cry.
Retrieved Passage 5:
Revenge of The Jelly Men
I dreamed a dream,
screamed a scream,
a vocal vent of pain:
the Jelly Men are coming
to find me here again!
They are coming slow and stealthy,
they are coming with blancmange,
they are coming back to pelt me
with a stale Victoria sponge.
I see the day
fade away
to all-consuming black;
the Jelly Men are coming
in dark, deadly attack!
with their moaning and their howling
and their teeth fiercely displayed,
and their custard dogs slow-prowling
in the sleepless, shifting shade.
A sound of drums,
the tyrant comes,
on legs covered in hair!
The Jelly Men are coming
with their dark, demented stare!
I will lash them with strong cable,
I will fight them fearlessly,
I am here under the table
merely out of strategy.
Copyright © Potato Ofterror | Year Posted 2014
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