Snarkstitutes! Opening Four-Panel Spread

 

Snarkstitutes! The Poltergeist, the Qareen & the Roc

Beasts -- slews! -- I've bled (from few I've fled)
down days since bread's been sliced. 
Still, bless my soul, my best damn role..?
Oppress the poltergeist.

(Loud noise you hear by night...? I fear

'tis poltergeists, by Christ!) 

That God is great I'll not negate;

my dogmal slate is clean.

And still my quest's to quash, sans rest, 

the Qabalah's qareen.

(Great care I'll take, for heaven's sake:

you ne'er know where it's been.) 

Dad hunted gnu. His runts did, too,

like chips off olden blocks.

Those days...? Long gone. Fresh crises spawn 

my raids upon twin rocs:

The female swipes Pa's corncob pipes; 

the male Ma's mincemeat mocks.

Snarkstitutes! Nessie & Ouroboros

Aren't you my liege...? Your job...? Lay siege 

(an act oblige noblessey) --

to spray a toxin o'er the lochs 'n' 

nail that noxious Nessie. 

(Make sure the bane's a potent strain,

lest matters moot turn messy.) 

Egyptian priests deplore such beasts.

Greek Plato joins their chorus. 

Old Norse do, too (as we do...nu...?):

All'd oust the Ouroboros,

who'll rancid gas dish out (alas!)

as well as tiresome tsorus. 

Snarkstitutes! The Monopod

I bleat, I pray, "Fie, feet of clay! 
Belay this playing god! 
This sling's the thing for murdering
the monst'rous monopod.

And, tho' 'tis weird, no counter's fear'd:

We'll see no quid pro quod."

Snarkstitutes! The Kraken & The Lubber Fiend

Aged ten 'n' three, I Jack Tar'd be,
though yet were sea legs lackin.'
Part man, part whelp, I plann'd (with help) 
to kill the kelp-clad kraken: 

I, arm'd with guns 'n' bullets (tons!),

bazookas, too, was packin.'

So: here's the gist: My peers insist

a posse be convened.

(There's but one rub: they're nuts to club

the loathsome lubber fiend: 

some irate Brit put out a hit;

his Smith & Wesson's clean'd.) 

Snarkstitutes! The Jubjub Bird

 

Jubjub 

Lewis Carrol's jubjub reportedly "will not look at a bribe." Uly Poe's jubjub...? Quite the opposite. 

Let's deputize and then advise
tough gals 'n' guys to gird 
each rump 'n' tail, then dump in jail 
the ur-schlub jubjub bird.

He's overdue for hard time, nu...?

(Reprieve...? Don't be absurd.)

Snarkstitutes! The Hippogriff & The Ishigaq

 
Hippogriff 

Poet Ludovico Ariosto imagines his hippogriff as crossbred between an eagle and a horse. Artist Uly Poe  reimagines that creature as the fusion of a stallion, a griffin and Senator Bernie Sanders. 
 

A horse-(no lie!)-'n'-eagle scion...?

Why should I care if

he's run to ground. I'd hate to hound

the hipster hippogriff --

tho' don't you think road apples stink...? 

You don't...? Whoa! Take a whiff!

Ishigaq inhabiting host 

Ishia are shapeshifters believed to kidnap (and deport...?), then abandon children.

Nor can I hide the imp inside 

(in fact, I lack the knack).

Be it too late to immolate 

my inner ishigaq...?

Snarkstitutes! The Gorgon

 
Gorgon 

Gorgons are monsters with snakes for hair (and, in the case of this gorgon, shit for brains) who turn the unwary into stone by staring at them (as with a mugshot...?) 

Alack, it's true: one's jumping to 
conclusions reckon'd foregone 
ought not be done a jot -- when one 
goes gunnin' for a gorgon.

(Not only will he lie 'n' shill:

he'll grab a female organ.)

Snarkstitutes! The Formorian

Formorian 

Personifications of chaos and blight, the Formorians of Irish myth are often portrayed as hostile, monstrous beings.

Halt! Half a mo! Don't laugh. I'll show 

you rafts of cups I glory in. 
I won this bling while collaring 
the fatu'us foul Formorian.

(Some claim to hear, when one draws near,

the cant of chant Gregorian.) 

Snarkstitutes! A Bigly Bestiary

"For the snark was a boojum you see."

                                      -- Lewis Carroll

Live precious few who, pressured to 

recall their fav'rite lark, 

would favor us with answer thus:

"Mine's hunting of the snark." 

Instead, these days, knights errant trace

grotesques of diff'rent race:

  

 
Acephalus 
 

Mythical acephali, headless, display their

facial features  across their torsos. (N.B.: having no head does not imply having no hair.)

What fool'd forget each pain, each fret, 

each almost-fatal sally

he sweated besting, then arresting,

awful acephali...?

(Remember'd, too...? Each sharp review

of Grampa's Rand McNally.) 

 

 

Bishop-fish 

Sycophants kowtowing to legendary bishop-fish are urged to purchase Bibles, autographed by these creatures, at a small discount. 

Who'd not confess each strain, each stress 

(though kvetching's not their wish)...? 

Their wont...? Explore the ocean floor

for beastly bishop-fish --

which, serv'd with chips on pirate ships,

most mates pronounce, "Delish!")

 

Chromandi 

Sharp-fanged monkey-like men who, insists  Pliny the Elder, roam urban jungles, are covered in blond hair and, tho' claiming "the best words," routinely resort to screams.

No reb'd mislay his trebuchet.* 

Such weaponry proves handy

when, marching forth, one dead-heads north

to capture cru'l chromandi, 

whose practiced art's to grab gals' parts --

their modus operandi. 

*In the US, read "...forget his trebuchet."

 

  

Djinn 

Supernatural beings encountered in medieval Arab traditions, these devilish spirits are shapeshifters, often held captive in bottles of many kinds and, released, wreak global havoc.

A young'un (three -- too gung ho...? Oui!),

I took it on the chin:

the Kids' Krusade! (Mistakes were made 

when disembow'ling djinn.) 

Echidna 

Living alone in a gated temple and worship'd by people of the nearby land, the half-snake Echidna bears numerous monstrous offspring.

Though now she's dead, I've often read 

of one (d'ya think I'd kid ya...?) 

who grabs her truncheon after lunch 'n'

slays ten men: Echidna!

(To best avoid this mongoloid,

each man of wit stays hid, huh...?)

 

 

(continued elsewhere)

My Big Green Box

On most moist, moonlit mornings 

post the vernal equinox, 

I wake to dual warnings 

from a pair of Plymouth Rocks,
their cock-a-doodlings not unlike 

twin arias of Bach's.
(Both cocks and I reside in my 

calliope-green box.)

My neighbors won't (or, so far, don't) 

berate me 'bout my birds. 

"An egg from you (just one would do) 

could smooth things, nu...?" (Their words.)  

Do pay we heed to neighbors' need...? 

The populorum vox...? 

We do, we three -- my cocks 'n' me 

and my goatee-green box. 

"This house of yours, its closet doors, 

its hardwood floors: why green...? 

We hues of blue could list for you -- 

three hundred seventeen,"

my neighbors fuss. I answer thus: 

"Good friends, if sev'ral blocks

around one treks, there's none erects 

a like Tex-Mex-green box."

 

Perhaps you've seen me on TV -- 

on "Wide, Wide World of Warts."

I spew some news and view "Who's Who"s 

in esoteric sports.

All this I do on Channel Two. 

(I'm e'er eschewing Fox.)

I, up at 3:00, down caffeined tea 

then flee my sea-green box.   

     (More verses, plus images, to come; a work in progress)