Jodekss Wick [Prosaic Poesy]

Jodekss Wick:
Pretty is my precious haven even if petty
With my lone memories of a faintly jump-starts
To this life’s own one of worst pin-ful pokes
With my many years of poetic champ bearing by
my fingers as a pengician on triggers to pen
For future fame or at least a pastoric popular demand
for a start or so; on my bed-bugged bed amassing fury
Came not comely dirty heads to to to disturb my funky peace.
Who art thou?

Bunch of bad bard as bad ass:
We are the dawn to your dusk
We are the dusk to your dawn
Your haven reeks like your decaying gut
This piece of peace you hype in your bed
Your petty bed we are to burn with the poorly
made-up memories of your affection we refill
with tons of thorn and at your turn your stars
We are painting into black and this we are
Beginning to bring by setting ablaze your bed bard.

They matched like macho men meaning their means with their versed machetes marring the made up merry looks of the mournful merry man. Dragged his fine filthy feet off the bed-bugged bed, removed the bed bugs and replaced his favourite bugs with white multimillion mighty milking maggots. Set his professional pens ablaze and milked the melted plastics and rubbers and metals on his metacarpals. Clothed his rolls with rolling flames— so thick like the pacing preposterous creamy clouds among other kinky clouds in the seated up skies really rendering him so silly and thus justly just jocular feeling fulfilled whilst he was gasping garnering resources of the amassed funky fury to repay just in the same flawless fold, but better flawless victory.

Read THE CHANGE

A narrator’s narrative:
Well, he aroused with his pen in a godlike fury
Paced into the ramparts that ran through his storey
All are falling and the flames of his fine belongings
were still there with their hands up wailing and weeping
Screaming why and why aloud into Wick’s and his spirit
Which was unto one got broken into thirty three trillions apiece
As broken as this bard be on his broken base thus came a broken bed bug
With broken scalp and legs and arms and hands and stomachs cut opened
Holding his hands up high to the burning ceiling seeing to his eyes saying
“Avenge us” and he died just at then, then he screeched out and his big bard blubbering verse
Was reviewed even the dens and deserts in hell and the factors in the abyss began
To purchase tickets to watch Wick’s vendetta as come back of a broken spirited spirit:
Cut the crap
Crossed his shrill
Crossed the street
Sat no more
Stood and paced
Matched in ‘n out
Found his coin
Rapped in loin
Bought a pen
More Pens
Poured inks
More inks
Bought a roll
Borrowed more
Wore his wear
Black and black
Shoes were black
Gloves were red
And were black
Packed his muse
Much more muse
Moved with irk
Energy grossed
Met them sleep
Woke them up
Gave them chance
Threw them pens
Threw them rolls
Attacked them
Countered them
Stunts on them
Twisted them
Turned them
Flipped there
Dodged glare
Lithe, numb them
Pierced, sew them
Sent their limbs
On their feet
They muffled
Set their balls
on blue fires
They screamed
Took their bed
And shredded their
Chairs and stools
Stooped their tallness
Short and stretched
Their short limbs
Into miles’ meters
Plugged their eyes
to their ball pens
Wrote their worth
in pencils
sealed these
Slit dearly rare
Their existence there
Through their throat
Then wobbled home
Back into shambles
And rested his pens.

©2019 Jodekss Gloatkenf