Weekly Sonnet 43

Friday (Doesn't Exist)

Randi Rhodes this week on holiday cruise.
Unfortunately, this means probably
no “Bounce Your Boobies”.  (Is that shamefully
so, to be deprived raunch? By Sam, her shoes
are filled: scathe Hannity (Ayatollah)!
To defend McCain’s actions, call; Hola!

(Our Founding Fathers probably had a
few broads on the side, too.) So, just admit
it gals, it sure feels great to feel the swing
of where the grapes of wrath are stored (not a
terrible swift sword).  Be certain to tit-
illate!  All the blue spied by the waxwing.
Left over, how many ten thousandths I’ve?
two thousand four hundred and twenty-five.

Weekly Sonnet 42

Is He One of the Marx Brothers?

Edwina says, “It is possible to
be a socialist and have stuff, you know,
Darling!” I remember the red frosted
sugar cookie at Life Night. The thought delves
into that American thing we call
wealth. (Theft be not inclusive, Hot Topic.)

Lucy says, “Mountain climbers chain themselves
together so if one falls, they all fall.”

Bling definition: Shit you buy to show
how fucking bourgeois and retarded you
are. But Christian LaCroix transcends cost, Ed-
dy. Poems are best when anti-septic.
Being not narcic-is-istic, any
god should be blessed to be on our money.

Weekly Sonnet 41

My Last Crush

Layer the stones profusely upon me;
Organs fail and yet I say to, “Bring more.”
Vicerit me sed ubi amor est?
Ego sum.  Took the rings off my fingers

and there’s nothing left to say.  But for jest,
I know it’s something humorous, lingers.
Mark my admiration: this or this or
this...(O ni bikkuri shakkuri to!)
The clotting on my bloody cornea
unwashed by your holy rain. I’m crazy!

All this would I be—I have no “Mea
culpa.”—if I’d marry you.  I see, show
the bursting from uranium fissures,
I cut out my heart with safety scissors.

Weekly Sonnet 40

And Not Fatty Duck, Either

I say: Hey dude, you got some shit up here.
Answer: That’s my face, sir!  Away the blue
people herd the cattle.  Did Ghandi get
this crazy?  The distance now known, I’m near
those who wait in darkness.  Pray for those who
chose and oppose.  Your T-zone won't forget.

We’ve seen the beads in gold, green and purple.
How sincere can be a self-imposed ban?
And only a saint could last forty days.
Close is time to make maple syrple.
They’ve got a message for the Action Man:
Quia pulvis es—how our pride allays.
Those non-glut-and-fast rotators ask: what
is a pączki? It’s a fucking doughnaught!