Tag Archives: wordplay

Typocal

It is a wonder that the weight of wisdom is not too heavy upon my weaving words, and that rigorous writing is still wriggling out. I have a confession to offer for Frank’s sake. My love that I have emitted, that engrossed your grin, embossed your bust, ends today with dire need to nip this read more »

[Mullen] Around

Through Neapolitan oligarchy and municipal madness Shamans and Martians have wondered for years how the waking weight of wisdom is not too heavy upon my weaving words, so that my rigorous writing is still inking about. Wisdom doesn’t always make one wiser when it’s been yours, with which you must burden the rest. This burden read more »

Mean Is But An Average

I tried reading some patience-friendly bilingual poetry today all I found were drops of ink, wrecked and resting on platter paper silent crickets smooshed into the page their legs spelling out death by misuse and heat-exhaustionthe human brain is made to expect nothing more than one word per concept one word per hope, we’ve tried read more »

Good Morning

Unwillingly sidle out of curious sleep, thoroughly oppressed. Heart oppressed by Mind, Mind oppressed by Hunger, Hunger relentless. Prod a raisin with my pinky, and chew the remnants of the life that is lived only when light comes to rest. I can vaguely recall the knights of night playing jeopardy with my vices, and an read more »

Push-Up Bra

Author’s note: As anyone who knows me will affirm, I clearly wrote this from extensive personal experience and not in the middle of the night in a fit of sleep-deprivation. With sultry sentience and tendency to slink, few have felt so confidently connected to the surrounding world, so confidently strident in times of desperation, so read more »

Go Buuck Yourself (A Parody of Parodies)

Yolkontinuation 6 A man … walks … into … a … bar … stool …and says … oops … sorry … didn’t … see ya … there … but no … one responded … so he … tripped oh … ver … any … thing that … crossed … his path … until he … read more »

II. The Feint

In a world that is not quite mudluscious[1] Ten bound of pages gray, By the window there they lay. She stares longingly at the other nine, But only one will open itself to her. A crumbling egg-timer waits for its purpose To slip through the air, Through those aged fingers and into the fog, Into read more »

I. Circling the Heavens

This sun shall only melt as the former has. Enjoy these harrowing sights while one can. All one can do is wait for the calm then, eh? I might as well pluck that lemon drop from the sky and pop it into my salivating mouth. I may suck from it the flavor of flame that read more »