Big Blot Fracks Prose, Blinks Hoops, Paints Files

by Olchar E. Lindsann

Big Blot Fracks Prose, Blinks Hoops, Paints Files

 

It fixed the bricks with pickled sticks

but missed the minty kit of splints.

‘Tis not that hot, but lots of tots

want pot, and hock up knots of rot.

This shod kid got rid of potty-lids;

its codgers’ frigid dots kill dodgy fish.

 

These packs of yacking pandas hack

up racks of cats, then whack their fat.

No oboes know the show’s slow notes

but go condone more showy goats.

A slack hose can’t flow back: your mac-

-aroni’s black, cold, lacks old tatty folds.

 

The pink minx slinging dinky things

at kinky shrinks? It winks and thinks

too soon of looming school rooms, cooled

by loony goons whose brooms are moons.

Blink fool, link boots to sphinxes’ rheumy wings

with inky tools: bring cootie-poop to fling.

 

Eight ways to bait a plate of slate

await a mate to scale the gate;

my tiger finds me fine wide wire

while tired buyers sign my flyer.

Why late guys ate flies makes Brian smile;

Slight weight might wait miles breaking bile.

 

Hit shoddy pigs, get potties big on rigs

of lonely bat-bones, slathered gore-rat roses.

Ring pools with kings; choose chinks of moody sinks;

fly plaits of kites; die flailing; bite my crazy dial.


door Olchar E. Lindsann

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