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  1. #11
    nancy drew
    Guest

    Re: Dont stick your stump in my eye when it was your fault

    Martin;

    You write the oddest poetry. It teeters on the edge of satire, but never fully dives in. Or maybe it does. Heck, what do I know -- it's so seldom you see poems about diarrhea.

    It reminds me of the copy Elaine Benes' assistant wrote for the J. Peterman catalogue:

    "It's a hot night. The mind races. You think about your knife; the only friend who hasn't betrayed you, the only friend who won't be dead by sun up. Sleep tight, mates, in your quilted Chambray nightshirts."



  2. #12
    nancy drew
    Guest

    Re: Dont stick your stump in my eye when it was your fault

    Makes me smile, anyway. Although I feel guilty about it.

    Like I'm grinning at a funeral ...

  3. #13
    martin shaw
    Guest

    Re: Dont stick your stump in my eye when it was your fault

    Thanks for your comments; I just do my own thing I suppose with me being cynical.


    Blip


    When my wisdom teeth are extracted,
    I will pray to God to reach down and
    pull on my tonsils like church bells
    to signify a last lap of life.
    Anxiety will then trigger the anus to
    exude rife gases that hurtle me
    forward like an uncontrollable lawn
    mower, rampaging on the herbaceous
    borders of middle class nit wits.
    Then as fuel dwindles into sediment,
    my engine will falter to a weakening
    ticker. At which point I shall push
    corks into every orifice and say
    goodbye to you all with watery eyes.

  4. #14
    martin shaw
    Guest

    Re: Dont stick your stump in my eye when it was your fault

    And they just keep on coming...

    Charles Darwin

    I wore a cabbage for a hat. It covered a bald patch
    and broke the ice when I met people. Aphids were
    attracted to me. They held parties in my hair and
    danced to my twanging metal comb when it became
    stuck in the knots.

    My head always itched when I put the car heater on,
    which made me twitch to the left and sent me south
    bound down the M1. The journey helped me relax and
    concentrate on my new theory of evolution. Sometimes
    a rotten pumpkin patch would force the aphids to make
    me turn right.

    They all learnt to speak, and started to call me their
    God. But recently I had become fed up with the noise;
    so I decided to stick my head into garden ponds and
    become the first human underwater fish feeder. People
    now pay to see my ginger gold fish hair in sushi bars.

  5. #15
    martin shaw
    Guest

    Re: Dont stick your stump in my eye when it was your fault



    The Dog and Mustard Seed

    There is a pub called the Dog and Mustard Seed.
    It has kittens that live in the hollows of itís front steps.
    Their mother fed them from fairy cakes with cherryís
    for a pinnacle.

    You can watch them all dancing together at dusk before
    they hide from the hungry beak of a Tawny Owl. Their
    jiblets do quiver at the whoosh of a wing. But it is a
    rustling bag that should pray on tiny minds.

    A servant will trap limbs for the sake of violin strings,
    and carry the babies off like wailing bag pipes under a
    squeezing arm. Here is to teach aristocratic dogs how
    to howl at bum notes of cat gut.

  6. #16
    martin shaw
    Guest

    Re: Dont stick your stump in my eye when it was your fault


    I have eaten my next door neighbours dog in a rogan josh curry.
    It tasted better than the reindeer I had from Lapland.
    That tasted of Santaís sweaty scrotum, and was his only means of
    transport after I burnt his sleigh. He brought me a bottle of cheap
    red wine and some chilli peppers the next year as a sarcastic present.
    I gave him some buck shot into the flabby cheeks of his posterior
    in return.

    He now lives in Vietnam and exports rice as a new business venture,
    capitalising on cheap child labour as he forces them to hoe hoe hoe
    for a living. I have resigned myself to eating garden snails stolen
    from my other neighbour, but the taste reminded me of sweaty lycra
    from the time I stole Cherie Blairís bicycle seat, she didnít even
    notice when she pedalled off.

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