Monday, January 20, 2014

Month of Poetry #19: Rolling gallstones

To slack and fetid crew, he flailed with
back-door hands and breath full of bin-juice
My boys! My excrellent boys! To fuck with this
not enough pirating! We are rolling
gallstones boys, gathering glory and gore!
Nodding upwards with his broad chin
he brought down ripped sails
dodged hard bits of bird shit
that pinged like a fossilised wedding.
They trudged, jaws askew and raw gums
receding, hardly hearing
We're not in Norwegian waters now,
sunning our arses for snakes, 
well we're not here to fuck! Spiders can make 
webs in your pants and catch those
puny flies that veer at your crusty dags.
He demanded worship of his floral bumhole
so they did as told and sat around the rose.
As criticism does part hairy balls
like rippling farts, so does the stink of attention
from a crowd of seated arses warm the cockles.

Includes suggestions from:

@dogpossum: not enough pirating
@urbabe: well we're not here to fuck spiders
@ernmalleyscat: and sat around the rose, as criticism does (Gina Rinehart, Criticism)
@JayJayCee1: Not in Norwegian (Dina's Son, Herbjorg Wassmo)
@sleepingdingo: gathering glory and gore
@timsterne: nodding upwards with his broad chin (Dan Brown, The Da Vinci Code)

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