by Bill Yarrow
They say his irrational outbursts and insane rants
are the results of untreated syphilis. Well, that
makes perfect sense to me. I've always thought
of him as a tessellated spirochete, a narcissistic chancre,
festering pustule of a blistered imposthume. And why
wouldn't a claptrap mind also have the clap? But what
infected innocent gave it to him? There's the rub. That's
the paper-thin tissue not yet punctured howsoever soon
it is to be assaulted. Ah, I don't care where he got it.
That he got it fills me with prosaic justice spiked with pride.
But hurry up. Bring this sub-cretinous indiscretion home.
The vile Tuskegee experiment lives on in his welcome end.
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This poem was published in Nixes Mate Review.
This is Shakespearean! Hard to choose a favorite but "festering pustule" is right up there for me.
Go, Bill, go!
Good poem, Bill. I like the tight, direct language here: "Ah, I don't care where he got it.
That he got it fills me with prosaic justice spiked with pride."
Really like the way the lines end. Nice sound and emphatic positioning.
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Excellent. You sure don't see the likes of this every day, but I sure as hell wouldn't mind!*
Thanks, Dianne! Thanks, Sam! Thanks, Tim!
fuck yeah loving all of it :) *************
Thanks, Valerie!
A social disease. right enough.
Thank you, David.