A word of warn for those who dare to read the following entry into the Poetry Potluck:
As on far too many a nightly repast, I was downing my fifth chilli cheese dog while The Beatles “White” album was serenading me with its sweet songs in the background when I suddenly had an inspiration, a vision, an epiphany, if you will – that or I could have been experiencing a mild cardiac arrest. Whatever the case I awoke from my swoon in a kiddie pool swimming filled with sautéed onions swimming in Tulsa, Alabama’s Dreamland’s rib sauce while two women looked on from the side. One was throwing dollar coins towards an area usually not associated with taking deposits while the other one was shaking her money maker at me with a come hither look in her eye and seductively cooing, “Honey if your dog’s plump and hot, I’ve got the buns!” Once I had towelled off, and ascertained that it was a couple of errant onions and not a tapeworm epidemic, I immediately rushed home and penned the following piece until I had blisters on my fingers and Sexy Sadie lulled me away by whispering “Hey, Jude, why don’t we do it in the road?” What can I say? Obladi, Oblada, I had me some wild honey pie until I had to shout “I’m so tired, good night!” So as you read, please call upon the spirit of John Lennon and repeat the phrase “Revelation number nine, revelation number nine, revelation number nine” until you are finished. Thank you.
P.S. To those two ladies I would sincerely apologize; I realize that you asked for the extra creamy mayonnaise, but after one downs five chilli cheese dogs… well let’s just say shit happens and leave it at that.
It was of no small matter
That I decided then undertook
The trek to the crone’s abode by the brook
With legs tight to avoid any accidental splatter.
Alone was I in this task of great import,
For none of my compatriots though supportive and of agree
Would take to either side of me
For a greet of the crone was far crueller than a meet with El Mort
See, no man will approach lest on a blood dare –
Tis not of the crone’s repute be of sinister administer
But public opine that a 93 year old spinster
Shalt not solely be clad in crotch-less underwear
The door opened to verily a crack
A cataract hazed eye did appear
With a look that if not covered would it may soul into sear
“Who dares show themselves up my track!?!”
“It is I – a hairy pud –her in want heavy,
Wishing to stave off this flow
By sealing it in a nether’s below
Without having to pay a sin tax’s levy.”
There was a “hurumph” then an unoiled hinge’s click
And there I stood chest to face
With the magicked owner of this place –
Fully wrinkled and sagged I had to still the urge to leave quick.
The crone invited me inside of her dwelling
Humble and full of clutter
Of so she apologized in a mutter
I nodded in hopes it was she not a decomposed body that I was smelling
We sat down and she gave me a wink,
“So be it a young man’s fancy you to me has brought,
I take it that the lass has not noticed that she is sought?”
She said loudly to conceal the couch’s cushion’s rumble of omen of a coming stink.
Through teared eye and struggled breath amidst a greenish mist
I explained verily that of love’s flavour
I did wish to taste, touch, to bathe and savour –
Plus to save some stress on my carpal tunnelled wrist.
At first the crone looked at me with a face quite blank,
“so let me get this straight
You aren’t looking for true love but stringless date?”
She asked in a tone that was usually reserved in a meated face spank.
There seemed to her come an understand
“If all you are famished for is any taco pink…”
With a large toothless smile up to me close did she slink-
I began to thunk that it wasn’t going as planned
“I don’t snog warts!” I did decry
She remarked and pointed to indicate my cod piece did say I did lie.
“Since it is clear that you only wish to boink
Such as you lust makes you naught but a lowly boor
To that you shall be for ever more…”
There was a poof to which my only response was “Oink.”
Do not weep this sad tell of my lot
For in a way my wish did be got –
In the mud I did not wallow
But instead I was to destined for the local butcher’s table
And fast ascribed to be served that night to a comely lass by the name of Mabel
Who in turn my meat did she deeply swallow…
You may be wondering what the hell – well, it’s a fairly simple explanation when something like this spurts from my mind. The theme of wizards and magic was a slap in the face to my sensibilities that I have been experiencing a month long dry spell myself. It is a coping mechanism that when such a thing occurs my brain insists that at least one head splurts something out since the other obviously is a friggin’ eunuch who is far too concentrated on making it big in Vegas as the worst Michael Jackson ever.