Author: poetryfest

Praise plunder pillage! Praise plunder pillage, he said, because that’s just what’s in his head.

He is all but a mere man. And man is all but mere. So forget the day’s frets, get on with the night’s bets, and in his hand will be a beer.

Impulsive idiosyncrasies, benevolent hate and ruthless love form a vast merger with all aligning astral anomalies, but in the end he hooks his wormy bait, moves on to the next empyrean gate, doesn’t dare let another dredge driver steer.

And he’ll be damned, should he ask for some simple direction – better to stop, consider this filthy fettered flop, seek those greener pastures, and obscure all that could be clear.

So let him wipe that smile so slick from his fainted face, watch him lament in that slower slippery pace, relished in reaming reveling rage, then hurry to harp and humiliate any he who sheds even just one single tear.

Praise, plunder, pillage! Praise, plunder, pillage, he said, because that’s just what’s in his head.

In all one mismatched moment, should his every bested battery go blundered and dead, he will feed on hardened hormone harmonies, and see nothing but pure putrified red.

He will truly tap that tampered temper, words twisted and thoughts tantalized til tomorrow’s no bounds, so buy this guy more and more rounds, watch him mask away some unmasked mirage of magnificent madams maddened, all the way back to his poorly papery pious mache bed.

So let’s just be sure this hasty hungered hunk is forever fed, find the fading threshold for faraway families fooled once and twice and furthermore, truly invisible to the eon’s eye so gnarled and naked, and then he’ll whisk and woo the weeping woman locked into such regretful woeful wed.

Say cheers to yesterday’s shaded ambitions, lay curse to today’s bright blunders, launch a clocked competition of mellowed manly merit and nance narcissist neighbors with some bigger but not better lawn, the cold kilted contest of no quaint compromises, consequences only in threat-woven offers of either silver or lead.

Praise, plunder, pillage! Praise, plunder, pillage, he said, because that’s just what’s in his head.

Dainty. Despotic. Downtrodden. By day’s unendowed break, watch his sullied soldiers soil the clappering quake, fitting those bony black blistered boots for a gutted ground’s most rugged wake.

This entire eagerly guilted globe spins swift on a sore single axis of proud priceless ganders and cheap chattery grins, and so do not ever try telling this empowered pretentious man of all his persevered losses and pointless wins.

Sacrifice the lowly lambs to the larking lions, then peel the pawn and polite off all that wilted wool, inch by inch, pinch and winch, paint this proudly shepherd all but pure black, set a sutured sanded target on his wary back.

Praise, plunder, pillage! Praise, plunder, pillage, in head, because that’s just what he said.

Or is it all just simply in his head? Forceful forgetful salesman’s unwanted cold call in the sizzling circus of sketched circles.

Praise what’s heard, seen and said. Plunder all under this sun, alive or dead. Pillage the prized prowess of all things seen and unseen, undead and unsaid.

– Aaron W Small