Tuesday, November 09, 2010
(after John Keats’ “To Autumn”)
Season of trysts and hellish faithlessness
Unbosomy friend of the immature son
Conspiring with him how to cheat and blast
With lies the vines that round a couple run
To blend their asses in the moist cottage cheese
And fill their drool with lava at the core
To swell his little gourd, and plump his lazy balls
With a slime kernel, to make breathing snore
And still more, latex flowers of disease
Until they think hump days will never cease,
For Bummer has rimjobbed their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen hot asses ‘round the store?
Sometimes whoever seeks a broad may find
Her leaning careless on a subway door
Her hair entangled in a wheezing wind
Or in a half-assed marriage, sound asleep
Drows’d with the fume of pussy, while my look
Betrays new wrath and all its twined sourness
And sometimes like a weiner thou dost keep
Randy thy leaden head across this book
Or by her little dress I saw on facebook.
Thou wasted with thy oozings what was ours.
Where are the dongs and things? Ay, where are they?
Don’t think of me – I had a muse, too –
These barcodes ruin the nuptial hay
And touch your stubbly palms with pickle stew
While in a wailful choir a small gnat mourns
Behind a crying river on Zoloft
And stinking like a light brown liver guy
A full-grown man loud bleats from hilly bourne.
Hedgehogs also do sing, and now with triple action
Her red breast whistles at a garden hose
And gathering sorrows teeter in my eyes.