Poet Poe pens nonsense verse. "Plus...phun," puns Uly, "I disburse." Its gamut runs from spam to worse. The po'sy posted...? Poe's diverse -- most, postcards from his universe, replies to grudges he must nurse. My summary...? Let me be terse: a mitzva, mostly. (Not a curse.)
On an exceptionally hot evening...
...having no expectation, none yell...
...such triple-digit temps can leave even the most gung-ho Russian peasant unmotivated...
Through the fence, between the curling flower spaces...
...three Harpwig FC wheels (NG) 'n' three-foot Cucu beetles (NG)...
...two strikers and a goalie from the recently relegated Yorkshire football club and several exceedingly tall insects imported from Amazonia -- and nary a one of 'em any good...
Now is the winter of our discontent...
...wet feet, no oro sun, thin cows in dirt...
...and my damn back is killin' me.
Many years later, as he faced the firing squad...
...he -- Mr. Sage, Sr. as Chief Yananda -- quietly farted...
It was in this role -- that of the charismatic though flatulent tribal leader of the local Yanomamo natives -- which the elderly actor had performed on the West End stage to some critical applause only three months before being convicted and sentenced to death for the kidnapping and murder of El Presidente's only daughter.
In a village of La Mancha...
...Che, an ailing vole, a lama...
...with only months to live, preached to his fellow lemmings a religion fusing Cuban Marxism with Tibetan spiritual practices...
If sailor tales to sailor tunes...
...fail to start one's isle-air soul...
...then wtf...?
I am packing my belongings...
...Ma -- locking penis in gym bag...
Look the other way, won't you, please, Mother, 'til I'm finished...?
It was a bright cold day in April...
...what AI call'd "a boy's tiring drip"...
...just how tiring the drip could become young Winston would discover all too soon...
