DROPS OF DISHONOR
all the stuff going on that motel was heating up but the locksmith didn't speak
Irish too well & besides he got drunk & robbed the wrong merry-go-round anyway...
Sigh
Banal as it might seem, it's not how you think
but I bet my client would like
a virgin monkey's grin
because what are gargoyles for after all?
Isn't that exactly what an
irreligious interregnum denies anyway?
& remember, I got tired of having no shirt
either because when you hate yourself
you can't lose control of your spasms &
quips;
I know you don't believe me but
for George's sake, what's the use of
negations galloping under orchids anyway?
I don't have to ask to be forgivable but hey,
it was like when the dream said I loathe you
with such frenzy that you're are in otter disbelief & start to slay your salary
&
the genius sang
& WOW! but the ferns weren't lying then?
What the hake?
All this rhododendron regurgitating for nothing?
Cripes! It's the boss you can't stand
that made you kneel & lick the stove
& don't you bloody dare look above
I can't tell you how many dogs I counted!
those are the keys. the keys that smell of mortality
and dazzle you afresh with displeasant
despondency & diabolical discontent!
such is the fate of Sergeant M.; a calamity
awaits this traitor's lucid & putrid soul.
Oh, the suffering he is about to endure!
the rascallion dismembered my owl.
the sweet revenge is about to commence.
nwahahaha (cavernous laughter)
In the wild Valley of Patapufete
where the mermaids dream
about petulant clocks & only the
stiffened boughs break silence
there is no solace until the revenge is accomplished
nwaha ha ha (cavernous laughter)
Sargeant M., is time you pay
because you did disobey
As my plethora falls from your ice, i am reminded of your smirk
The evening ascends in on a great fern wing
you cannot escape from your gray laughter
as you are robbed of your phenomenal nightmares
by a zebra trespassing on a Valhalla
only the hippie hippo can save
your infamous soul. Voilà !
here he is. Just got our from his cave
oh, no the hippie hippo is my perdition!
Your maleficent ministrations
are strategically coming to fruition!
and thus you sip the equations
of nightingales & searchlights
that mysteriously vanish upon the sins
of Mount Chester. Such heights
we're not accustomed to. Who wins
if the mortiferous guffaw of the wind
penetrates your Psyche in such a way
that you suddenly start to hate yourself
so much that you don't have time to regret
the fact that you've been a pusillanimous?
Copyright © Ivor Kos | Year Posted 2024
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