Flashy Poem Monster

Monstrous Mental Gym Poem: de-monstrate, not tell

I have been reading lists of clichés;

listening to talks about random violence-or-not at chuckycheezes

spoiler: it’s usually a domestic affair

Also:

weapons of mass destruction

points-of-no-return

small-step braveries

shooting of mentally ill patients in hospital beds

snatches of gravity’s rainbow

and long re-reads of tortuous tales

It made the time on the treadmill go by somewhat faster

even without stem-cell time crystals

Touché cliché has a bonjour tristesse ring to it, no?

wickéd

like sweat through a lulu leotard

demon straight

demon’s traits

– I am trying to think of a monster-

in 1500 words

Cheesy.

The monstro-of-consciousness

morphs and changes.

Now cooing sweet nothings,

then tearing self-esteem apart-

It throttles the black dog;

tickles the tummy full of cherry pie-

whispers, cajoles, shouts;

pulls at bruised toe-nails.

It pinches off yeasty-dough pizza thought bubbles

and spins and flattens and tosses them.

Some plop down like toe-biter offspring;

take root, potato-eyed spud roots

with leaves and shoots and spider hair.

Others crawl away, skinless, raw, unlit:

shoestring allumette fries.

The stem cell time crystals voice their opinion:

They protest too much, methinks.

Vulture paté, it’s a thing:

They came for its liver, every day

and it grew back by night.

Now, they sit, own talons nailed to a plank; force-fed themselves.

It’s a delicacy, you see.

The post-prandial pancreatic pleasure

of Deliverance

de mon traitor

Ma man,

the good father

That is, the water bug dad:

not a monster, you say.

When you tear the legs off a sea star,

you can grow five new ones.

Twenty-five torn off could soon add up.

High five, oleaginous prince,

you get a five star review!

We’re going on a monster hunt

Mon stêr

Mon star

My stare

I see you now:

You are a true monster,

my monster.

The woke monster

The delicious monster, caught by its tail

of twenty-now’s.

Descend the stairway to hell on tippy-toes.

Apoptosis

(Not halitosis)

tie; grrr

Sorry, Pops, what did you say?

Pop star?

Pop tart?

No: just toast

How can toast be just?

A toast to justness then!

It’s just a lemma after all.

A choice between the high road and the low one:

bract or chaff.

The grass roots of a double-take.

But don’t panicle;

there’s no stigma attached to this ovary,

the anthers in fact a filament of your imagination.

Don’t unsheathe the blade

of ridicule so readily.

True post-modern poetry

is hard to conceive

And readily aborted

No mint will sweeten that breath:

vulture vomit is an involuntary evolutionary un-evil defence mechanism.

You know that.

A sticky wicket, when your software won’t update

Even with the license key

It leaves one vulnerable

to all kinds of unholy trolls

Raging at the fall of the good knight.

Do not go gently.

Monstrosity

Fight that good fight.

Into the night rode the five hundred

their duty done

Screw the one thousand;

we do this for fun

So: nine more words:

it should have been none.

Now: the other thousand words will have to be a picture, because I’m out of time and talent. Hey, it’s pi day today.

 

Hellish_MenU