Poor of Mouth
(March 20/06)
Penury is for the poor, the poor of mouth--the penuriously poor, poor. I am poor, penurious, financially defrocked. And grandma ma’s hastily hopped coppers, which never quite fell into the cusp of my hand, but fell through into the sewer at the tiptop of my feet, unshod and unholy souse’s soulless feet, feet. Flan has no-nothing on me, nor two-boirds at swimmy. Molly, that Liffey-laughy bogslut, now she I have a particular shinning for, as all men with a bird in their brain see fit to fiddle flummox betwixt the hunker of her legskin skin. And the wretch of poor Paddy Dingham, all dead and roiled in buttersoil and lime twists. Sad bastard he. No lemony scented lavations or up the end-out for the likes, or not, of he, as worms make ferrous wheels in the ocular obits of his scumskullskittle. Ah, but that I should be so lucky to have a drill bore in the labial ligneous of me headspore. Parricide butter, pads ends-up, to avoid an unseemly sebascone. Blackberry Alma tarts with wee-seeds and caraway on the sideplate. She was a sure fine one, with her apron trail and headscarf. And Uncle Jim, with the one cockeye and the other mulled in a tarn of puddle blood. Poor Uncle he said verily nothing when green sprouts and vegetables were heaped on the skid of his dinnerplate: not one for the verdigris or the parsimonious root, or a wedging of stale ends with Alma’s applebutterspread unevenly on the heel and croup. I must say, this poorman’s mouthing is none too wearying and saddlesad. Now, if time permits a permission, I will see fit to a cunning lingual in a wean the corrupt of dear dearest Molly’s bogslutted leggy leg legs. Adman or not, I see a fitting cloture in the mucking.
Penury is for the poor, the poor of mouth--the penuriously poor, poor. I am poor, penurious, financially defrocked. And grandma ma’s hastily hopped coppers, which never quite fell into the cusp of my hand, but fell through into the sewer at the tiptop of my feet, unshod and unholy souse’s soulless feet, feet. Flan has no-nothing on me, nor two-boirds at swimmy. Molly, that Liffey-laughy bogslut, now she I have a particular shinning for, as all men with a bird in their brain see fit to fiddle flummox betwixt the hunker of her legskin skin. And the wretch of poor Paddy Dingham, all dead and roiled in buttersoil and lime twists. Sad bastard he. No lemony scented lavations or up the end-out for the likes, or not, of he, as worms make ferrous wheels in the ocular obits of his scumskullskittle. Ah, but that I should be so lucky to have a drill bore in the labial ligneous of me headspore. Parricide butter, pads ends-up, to avoid an unseemly sebascone. Blackberry Alma tarts with wee-seeds and caraway on the sideplate. She was a sure fine one, with her apron trail and headscarf. And Uncle Jim, with the one cockeye and the other mulled in a tarn of puddle blood. Poor Uncle he said verily nothing when green sprouts and vegetables were heaped on the skid of his dinnerplate: not one for the verdigris or the parsimonious root, or a wedging of stale ends with Alma’s applebutterspread unevenly on the heel and croup. I must say, this poorman’s mouthing is none too wearying and saddlesad. Now, if time permits a permission, I will see fit to a cunning lingual in a wean the corrupt of dear dearest Molly’s bogslutted leggy leg legs. Adman or not, I see a fitting cloture in the mucking.
1 comment:
Stephen,
sorry, cuz i know this isnt the appropriate place, but i cldnt hook up with you via email
i was so blown away by your last two poems over at Taking the Brim that i just HAD to gush at you a bit
keep up the absolutely stunning work!!
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