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Ode to CHUDs Satanazes, stanza sea O daring isle of poetry the rumored dwelling of demons found but instead a gamin lithe yet ensnared in lust on a deserted island with her love from being crossed by her own blood to lie, rot, and succumb consumed her lover to live on the serendipity of Basque fishermen ending loneliness as a bummed beacher she moved to France to be a teacher throngs of loathsome kids to see daily longing for handsome dads to be flirty
Ra cis tea shines bright as the son of man who grasped the sun strong enough to cast a chariot into one curious enough to think brave enough to ask can’t you leave us alone? peace means we get a piece but He only leaves a loan or lease adjudicate, for Noah hides the fleece that kept you warm under a blanket’s crease cold and shadowed without the flame, we’d freeze He’s superjacent in folds, Jack Frost’s sastruga kneads mingent, saturnine, spewing Kali Yuga memes doomers of old mold zoomers with bold fool’s gold molten glass blown cold, a hardened soul sold to the caste of sone an erotetically stained Matryoshka doll antique left marveling at the justice passed over for so cheap
forbidden she pulled Lee Morse from a polylined inner sleeve placed, needle dropped, and beckoned me her lips soft, moistened, and cheeks blushed with heat “whose that coming down the street / whose that looking so petite” (music playing) where the record scratched olden her kids tucked in—they came first because she’s a good mom and her eye’s icy blue demands and her knowing keek meekly crossing her arms and flinging her shirt and I snapped off her bra she displayed false innocence and I saw her slender side having a tattoo hidden to most and can you believe? her husband, away with company my most vivid memory backfired wondrously: falling asleep copulatory the thought warms my blood but leaves a stone in my throat she loves him so disloyally by his side spinning my mind into a broken record she lecherously checkered and abraded I but a sparking scratch of her heart’s incalescence her a canyon routing my deserted quintessence
Note: All poetry is original and written by a humble man ducking behind a mask named “Paul Moosefoot,” or “Moose.” Artwork is made by assist with OpenAI technology Dall-E.