Fancy Free

When life doth air too serious
So weary I become
My notions turn nefarious
To whimsy, I succumb

I then proceed to longeth p’ruse
My Frederick’s catalogue
To sate my need for silken rouge
And frilly lace corsage

Of course they must be crotchless
Lest I err a thoughtless cad
And should I dare wend topless
Throw some pasties in the bag

With preference for tassels
‘Tis a hassle otherwise
I might start feeling sassy
Thus, such foresight would suffice

Ne’er I display such imprudence
Hence, I buy in bulk
For countless corsets have i torn
asunder with mine hulk

As proven on the eve
I wast locked out of mine own house
And all the poor old maidens
Swooned as if they’d seen a mouse!

Did grant, I may stand
Two inches just over six feet tall
With brawny build and buns that filleth
Panties with a sprawl

Which tend to draw the ire
Of the gentry’s night patrol
Who seem to never tire
Of cruising past me ever slow

Why then, would anyone
Blame a lad for simply trying
Were I to say I did not look
Hawt in lace I’d be lying!

And thou knowest quite well
This spectacle sings flourishing
Within the theater of thy mind
Where it is now showing

For none dare intermit
The thought of such a rogue delight
Frolicking in flowery peignoirs
All throughout the night

[image credit: Louis Wain]

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“Dissociative Apathetic Neurosis” ~a meme~


for my fellow Plath crushers, i now present, in the spirit of the Kermit the frog distractedly drinking his tea “But that’s none of my business” meme format:


“Dissociative Apathetic Neurosis”                                  ~a meme~


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Ode to Scutty’s Buns Revisited

mister scutty.

buns.

mine eyes take to sea
draped in black damask

ask, upon what merit

to what do i owe
thy fine mask of sinew

in shadowed remorse
i lay vexed

exquisite.

a freedom formed
born of toilsome task
such winsome,
this ass

grasping in folly
i falter, forlorn
this finest of fannies
far more than fixed eye
could e’er hold candle to

sand doth sift
and so shifts time

o buns of golden mote
i dote on this fire
to hold what is naught
but a phantom fandango
so taut with transgressions
in visions foretold

foreboding alabaster sheath
aglow
no, asunder
plundering depths
taste tears of sallowed vitae

were strength as a flower
this truth, seed and all
should fall as the hour
when tower doth beckon

thy buns!
thy buns!

o scutty!
skyward flesh effused
obfuscated realms of sordid sanctity

below is a shifting
uplift yea!
uplifting

muted trepidation
threat or compliance

lo, golden buns of stardust waver

o scutty!
buns that scintillate liquescent
‘neath the moonlight’s tremble

in cries of haute

wielding scepter

Ode to Seth’s Legs

leaping like flames licketh brisk
summer air at which hour dawn yonder
showered eyes upon vigorous brace
the quintessence of equine preeminence

evincible glints grace glamorous mincing
thunderous echoes exuding lengthwise
exalted demise, dem legs, mine eyes

such spectacle sprawling
splendiferous in spades
defined restriction depicted
did clothe in denim

invoking a madness incurable

lest ye deftly caress with impetuous duress

o seth

shouldst thou presage to press
mine pith upon thine thigh
with haste alloweth this chaste cheek
to seek ambrose abrade

my dismal display in ardent diremption
come forth, cleave the alcove in twain
splaying resplendence
in resonant reverie

grant me the gifts of thy getaway sticks
for all of wast forsaken
in a moment so sacred
hadst cradled relentless reprise amidst repose

the length exceeds all
organic, alchemic
infusing frenetic dendritic rust rushing

clutching loincloth
enlivening languet

protrusions doth jut from jointed quadrant
afire with desire to sate with imminence
sinuous steel sinking into silken steps
where cries of compromise clingeth in clawed clamor

i stammer to stutter
shuddering bethought
on what brink wouldst i quaver
in savory slopes sweltering
neath sheltering shade

abating mine anguish
a solitary stolen wish

illustrious bough how hath thee so rendered
this tender heart smitten in prism of fire
did shape in dulled shackles of ashes erstwhile
whence harrowing spires spewed renewal

stricken with awe
unguarded guffawing
imparting the upstarts to uncharted enclave

o seth, alloweth thy sturdy stilts strapping most sweltry
to forge mine rod, sodden
in sweat born of strenuous struggle

straddling triumphant
promethean spruce
in predestined densities
and foregone clairkinesis

entwine me in thine tendrils of sooth

Timeth of Day

every inkling inked upon
this parchment which thee followeth
prose composed, of blood t’was forged
in mine own drops of sorrow
still, displayed in erred ways
as though t’were born of naught
the truth beholden to beest told
in moments seldom sought
to some seemeth incessant
streams of trite grandiloquence
though none has’t seen such broken dreams
smite mine own countenance
i’ll not recant if thou wouldst grant
thine audience of heart
through such eyes thou dare not encave
from truths these words impart
and though verbose these thoughts
impose upon thee with intent
so doth convey mine own dismay
allaying consequence
if thou protests, i wilt request
with haste beest on thy way
for i’ve not might, to grant
the likes of thee timeth of day