To My Special, Really Wonderful
Spiffy-Neato Keen Cool
Guest Neurotic Poet Page
Sharin' the Nude Whirl of Poultry proudly presents a man whose words made my panties damp as I sat at my computer, writhing in orgasmic communion. Never have I cybered a writer who could make me writhe just by showing me his subject lines. Whether he's bleating like a sheep or barking like a naughty sex poodle, or parading around in front of the eyeball camera in his 8" pumps, his is a voice that I am sure you will hear with your lust muscle.
Prepare to have your love muffin buttered by a real he-man of a poetaster. When he says, "Spread'em," he means it and you WILL obey. Engorge, I always do.
Pieces, Ebb McFlow
Nut house on a hill, with Massengil, fingers tremble
as they caress and tease the glory member.
Stroking is his main obsession as a vision
of the dried yet lovely desert flower he remembers:
She who looks through rosy glass, her sagging ass,
has fogged the ratholes of his mind, his feeble brain.
He squeezes his beauteous (though tiny) thing -- Oh God!
And fills his cell with whispers of her name.
In his nuthouse on a hill, pounding wood,
Pluto calls to Venus as though to guide her:
A little to the left, my cactus blossom -- good!
I'm almost there, open just a little wider.
Sharin' & Droolin'
There's an obvious answer to this conumdrum
of why we two twits have no shame or pride.
There is no mighty moderator to police the humdrum,
inept exhibitionists in need of a guide.
Frolicking in failure, more lukewarm than hot,
this Aussie Adam and his Arizona Eve,
flow with feelings like a toddler flows snot
Oh, if only our prattle they'd leave
donating our prodigious apoetical spit
Sharin our droolin for a higher good than irritation,
taking up a job for which we are fit,
harnessing their spew for crop irrigation.
What a Putz!
Some women are more inane than others,
they're simpering, they're whimpering in your ear
their appalling attempts at poetry, oh brother,
from bad to verse year after year.
Beware the ersatz poet's malaprop'd words,
cast about with self-righteous inattention,
Beware the cloying mixed metaphor
and shun mangled rhymes too numerous to mention.
Reprehensible how you lead on the mediocre Maven,
Torturing syntax to tears as sense you manhandle
Knowing only intestinal gas could live in such a haven
You give a bad name to the term "love handles."
Night of the Living Dead
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