Two Ill Winds Breaking

Why Fart Thou? Sonorous Sonnet (Pedontic)
(In keeping with my practice of modeling some of my poetry on other poems, I adapted a Sicilian Petrarchan to create these two new, very similar, ones: two riffs on the same theme. ‘Pedo’ is a vulgar Spanish word for ‘fart’.)

Oh why fart thou my bedmate I pray?
Dost thou not love me, like I do thee now?
Am I to have lost my nose scents this day
When I endureth thy inanity, in bed with thou?
Why does thou treat a dear bedmate this way?
To be ashamed, I wouldst for the endow
For a gaseous impunity has now fled astray.
My nostrils burn, eyes are watering, and how!
Harken, ‘twas a rumbling noise I didst hear,
Hidden ‘neath the your olde pillows three,
My tortured senses now shaketh with fear
Mayhaps tis flatus, what else could it be?
“Twas another ill wind? How drear my dear;
With all that poison, I departeth from thee.

Petrarchan Ill Wind Breaking
With apologies to serious poets & those who love poetry

Oh don’t fart thou my crude friend, Okay?
Dost thy not respect me, you smelly sow?
Am I to be with your stink and odor today,
When I shareth my table at home with thou?
Why dost thou treat an acquaintance this way?
To be shamed, I wouldst hope thee avow.
Your understanding of decent bounds is astray
Civility prohibits fight, I only raise a brow.

“Harken, twas a ripping sound I didst hear,
‘Neath your comforter, a noxious spree.
Your trembling body announces, I fear
Another flatulent explosion soon to be.
Twas an apt foretelling, my eyes did sear:
With tears I rise give notice and flee.

This was the serious poem that triggered my buffooneries.Where Art Thou. Sicilian Sonnet (Petrarchian)

Posted January 13th, 2010 by willow

Oh where art thou my dearest lover I pray,
Dost thy not love me, like I do thee now,
Am I to have lost my true honour this day
When I shareth my vanity, alone with thou,
Why dost thou treat a poor maiden this way,
To be shamed, I wouldst for thee endow
For alas my purity hast now fled astray
My forsaken chastity taketh a final bow.
Harken, `twas a broken twig I didst hear,
Hidden `neath the olde sweeping, willow tree,
My trembling body now shaketh with fear
Mayhaps tis my lover, most precious be he,
"Twas that thee my love? oh my dearest dear
With all my person, I trembleth, for thee

Ashburn Burns Ass

Bakersfield awakened to the news:
Swerving car of anti swishing views
Senator, just leaving funny Faces –
Not good news for political races.

It’s “C” Street hypocrisy return,
Leaving a Gay bar was Roy Ashburn.
Burning ashes doesn’t start a fire
Nor does this arrest raise my ire.

Righteous Roy, the gay molester,
Homophobic boil did burn and fester.
Where’s your indignation, Christian sir?
Under Macho saddle, queer burr?

Bashing queers as tactical campaigns
Risk media lights on closet floor stains.



http://www.topix.com/news/gay/2010/03/anti-gay-senator-roy-ashburn-arrested-after-leaving-gay-nightclub

http://tw0.us/6jn

Anti-gay senator Roy Ashburn arrested after leaving gay nightclub

Around 2am Wednesday, March 3rd, California State Senator, Roy Ashburn (R-Bakersfield) was pulled over in his state-issued black Chevy Tahoe. There was an unidentified man travelling with the senator. Sources say the senator had just left the gay nightclub, Faces, when police noticed the car swerving dangerously and pulled him over.

Sputtering Poet & Response to Critic

Sputtering Poet

I’m not energized for writing verses,
The pump is sputtering and I feel tired.
I’m at the opposite of being wired
And wordsmithing might record reverses.

Poet hasn’t written anything decent
In a while. Versing when not inspired
Might not be best: it might get mired
In phrases clearly not by muses sent.

Nonetheless sparking poetic synapses,
Though inspiration is at low voltage,
Spurt juice enough for rhyming wattage:
Inferior stanzas are better than total lapses.

As mother tends ill child though she’s dying,
Poet nurses verses through feverish crying.


@JCred: I once wrote a better poem. with my dick. RT @elmonte09: Sputtering Poet

To Critic With Poetic Phallus

I’ve no envy of your penis poem,
Poet with a literate peepee,
Even if your versed member be
Quite able to write and type ‘em.

Casting verse in twitter stream
Risks judgements such as this.
I’ve dark wish for poetic bris:
Foreskin editing, my scheme.

Just cut the tip of flaccid rhyme
Introduced by your witty penis:
Not converting David into Venus
Yet with cut rate snitch in time.

Dear critic with cultured phallus:
I’m not macho: I bear no malice.