Weekly Sonnet 47

Mr. 4000

I say it baits if you’ve met it Morte a
su à remembre-ce. First many, then few.

I’ll never get out of this world alive,
never pay everyone’s vice again (snag).

Mesopotamian small-pox-bomb Rag—
everything that’s blunderful is when you
make a graft of our bodies and jump on
on, anon—la Via Dolorosa;
rise, the beat don’t stop my struggle and strive
yet we...I wasn’t born, I was only

Hatched. Five, six...open up the gates (pearly)!
Ogilvy, Patriot! For you I fawn!
Look into it and see nothing. Well, try.
Each remark from endship above will lie.

Weekly Sonnet 46

Five Years In (Had it Last Night)

The MythBusters know there’s no proof it should
work any better today despite your
derision. (I’m just moaning about it.)
Kari Byron, I need a fix for my
Three thousand dollar per second habit.
Put some gelignite under a car hood.
(I’ll tell ye, there’ll be NO BUTTER IN HELL!)
Night vision balls of green light. Stock me! Oar

me! Savage says, “I reject your real-
ity and substitute my own!” Bore, lie
the curvature on the table. We al-
ter, crack (And a whole lot of love!) and swell.
Double You balances un œuf Faber-
gé for the purpose to our fears defer.

Weekly Sonnet 45

Alexander II: Explosive Boogaloo

(It’s also L. Ron Hubbard’s birthday but
discussing Scientology is so
passé, it would give it more attention.)

Bombs are a crude, ineffective manner
of killing a person. (it’s worth mention
that if you do, always have a backup
or two). Are you a guest worker planner?
My Emancipation Manifesto,
My selfish progressive motility
are less than sincere—white packages cut
apart my legs—drink from a ruddied cup,
it grants not freedom but ability.
Darling Nicky, dissent still has ammo;
you cannot hide—O zhalkiy zhrebiy moy!

Weekly Sonnet 44

A Cheap Suit: Roy Cohn Died in It

With the consistency of santorum
your trial began by a forced destiny.
Your soul can leech with eelings full of spite.
(Kiss His hand.) I want to open myself!
I see your destruction and your labor.

Joined: for the right to be free, just to fight.
(Present and accounted for) In the sand
he drew a line with his army sabre.
“Play deguello,” I tell my marine band.

He’s not Grendel or Dobby the House Elf,
Our American Negation forum,
quell my rational Reason mutiny.
Dick Cheney’s acute, terror’s acuter.
Everything that I despise (Lies!), Scooter.