Poetry-Thing Thursday: To Show

Sycophantic psycho cat,
stepping up to the bat,
beats her cleats upon the mat,
to ready up her brilliant stat,
and lift the corner of her hat,
while the umpire and the catcher, fat,
are wishing they’d instead sat.

After the game she’ll go to see,
visions of eternity,
in raving drug and booze party,
where perhaps she’ll meet me,
for some psychedelic tea,
that will force us into memory,
and leave us stranded out at sea.

Perhaps then we’ll make a bet,
that could never be reset,
especially if we haven’t met,
or maybe she may take me yet,
her loins throbbing, pulsing wet,
and then I, she will get,
with expert-knotted, new fish-net.

Maybe we’ll win,
feel skin to skin,
as I dive in,
deep in her satin,
wet warm I pin,
she feels me within,
committing original sin.

More likely though,
we’ll never know,
what the future could sow,
were we to go,
together, en-tow,
all others hollow–
should’ve put my money to show.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Illustrate, Alliterate

A frothing phantasm of frightening fortune,
bubbles bilious in the bowels of barbarians,
while sloppily sweet is the savory saint
whose caffeinated curmudgeonly countenance creates
a portrait, a painting, of petulant ‘plaints

Vindictive vaudevillians of vicissitudes verbose
sing medleys of misers, mimed by a moose
while caroling curlers curtsy in court
‘fore a noisy, neanderthal knows not what’s nort’
and so whines at the winds then wittily wins

Surely I jest,
but you know not the test,
that which I’ve taken,
at my own request–
for business is best,
when transacted undressed.

A festering fool finds self filthy-full,
when tightened and tempered, twisted by tools,
brotherly bearing, or broken and boring,
he’s fairly faring a ferry of fairies,
by cutting contentious curtailed capillaries

And the Villainous Vixen of Venomous Vendetta
turns knife into night and now into none.
And then at dawn-down is seen dourly done,
in a fetid and festered famely-known fawn,
ready to purchase and perfect, and by perchance prefect.

And now for the rest,
that we all received blessed,
some call it death,
but I name it “The guest,”
upon whose soft breast,
I’ve been caressed.