It Gets So Lonely In the Shoemakery

Larisa’s word: Felicity

Gailyana’s question: Are your shoes comfortable?

It took an age to sculpt these shoes.
We’re felicitous. It’s remiss of us,
Not to care for your feet like shoe makers should.
We’re solicitous of your business.

Can we massage your toes with kittens and roses
And mittens and loofahs and flattering lotions?
Can we rub our noses on your toes and say prayers
Blow warm airs on your heel everywheres?

Can we take off your pants and dance…?
There’s ever a chance, you just might find us
That much more, than you saw us, before.
Let me spell it out for you: You could score.

Why Do People Suck?

Owly’s question: Why do people suck?

Foxie’s word: Decoupage.

Why do people suck so much?
    Like parents who let their children run rings
    Around them and touch exhibited things?
Why do people suck so much?
    Like people who try to rhyme the word eye
    With the clearly non-rhyming “symme-try”?
Why do people suck so much?
    Like pop art decoupage kitschy freaks
    Who paint sun faces and do shabby chic?
Why do people suck so much?
    Like hipsters.

Mod Podge

Further’s question: Should I apply for that job?

Owly’s word: Mod podge.

LinkedIn is for chumps, I found a way
To make an impression that can’t be beat.
I guarantee you, on the day,
You’ll land that job, now take a seat.

Listen to my simple plan.
You’re lucky to hear it for free.
I should be charging at least five bucks.
Okay maybe two bucks fifty.

Get mod podge and draw a prawn,
Or a claw shrimp at least,
Upon your curriculum vitae.
Or maybe some other majestic beast.

Now a common problem at this point:
It’s hard to see the white on white.
Ah but wet on dry stands out,
If you tilt it under a light!

Quickly take a handful of glitter,
And apply it liberally.
Tap the excess into a bin.
Behold! What do you see?

Not one cold hearted sariman
With a face like hardened plaster
Could not respect a glitterprawn.
You are the glitterprawn master.


Petulia’s word: Slither

June’s question: How many turns are you supposed to take around the mulberry bush?

My lipsss I am a-lickin’ when the childrens come a-pickin’
Round my home they are a-dancin’, a-ssshoutin’ and a-prancin’.
I likes the taste of little boysss, dislocate my jaws and poisssse,
To ssslither out and pluck one where he
Circles ’round my mulberry bush,
Clumsy, slow, and none too wary.


Bran’s word: Sasquatch

Maggie’s question: How’s your loony bun?

“Left bottom cheek, you know, you reek, have you even bathed this week?”
“Rawr, me Sasquatch, eat little men! In my belly AT LEAST TEN!”
“Oh cheeky left buttock, you’ve quite the funk, did you realise you’re covered in spunk?”
“Rawr, me Sasquatch, sit on dicks, crush them up to LITTLE BITS!”
“Other half, did you have a fall? Dicks aren’t full of spunk, that’s balls.”
“Rawr, me Sasquatch, me not wrong. Coca-Cola make BIG AND STRONG!”
“Loony bun, between you and me, this place is a hole, I think we should leave.”

Cheese Tumour

Wolfgang’s word: Punch.

Marian’s question: Where upon your head would you choose to grow a tasty cheese tumor if you were given the (forced) opportunity to grow such a thing? (If you don’t grow one, you will be tazed for 46 days.)

I wish to punch that bitch—that witch—
Who cursed me with a cheese tumour
Around about the area which, I itch.
’Twas once my noble balding pate.
Don’t look at me, I’m shy now. Try
Now, look away. I hide my
Yellow skin and greasy eyes.
I smell delicious. I want to die.

Last Night Me

Polly’s word: Gadzooks

Colt’s question: What happens when sleep is no longer an option?

Colt: Write a poem in the “disguise” of a postcard message

Colt: Write a poem inspired by the words “the morning after”

Marian: Contrast the inherent meaninglessness of a convertible, with the idea of a convertible as an object in a meaningful experience. Use sunsets, and roads through the desert. And lots of metaphors for love and loneliness. <em>opens file</em> 123 go.

Dear last night me,
Gadzooks! I see,
You’re not asleep, it’s half past three.
Today I’m not asleep, nor waking
I’m shaking, now.
I’m shaking.

I tasked Foxie to write a poem.
He wrote about last night.
He wrote about what he did do,
And you should do it too…
So today I’m not a zombie
And can write my report promptly.

Have a bath and have a drink,
Stretch your legs or clean the sink,
Air the room or use a fan,
Be as warm, or cool as you can,
Precisely two hours after a feed.
Write a list of things you need.
No TV, no computer screens,
And not too many refried beans.
That is what the textbooks say.
So bloody easy in the light of day.

Foxie’s advice is in addition
And next to that lump, that standard edition
Of well researched common sense,
Foxie’s tip is… complete nonsense.

Hold the hand of one Stev, two,
Three Stevs, four, a million more.
Splitting and dividing, growing,
Dizzying and flowing.
A red convertible lurches forward,
Dodging dusty sunlight swords,
Faster faster, to a wall,
It doesn’t fall, goes up is all.
The road folds over near the top,
Encloses the whole world in a box.
On the outside, painted stars,
Zooming out now, from afar,
A small boy packs it in his closet,
Is that what Stev was like? Was it?
Now it is an old man smiling,
Sitting in a room and filing,
Photos in a box of stars,
Fingering one, of a car,
He had as a younger man,
Engine grease and jerrycans.

Now take this postcard,
Last night me,
Plant it in your room and see,
It grow into a hundred beds
On which to lay your hundred heads.
Just do what Foxie says.

Genius Bar Evictee

Sam’s word: Boing.

Polly’s question: Where do babies come from?

Genius bar evictee,
That’s me.
They did not agree
With pedagogical duty:
The use of iMovie
To explain to thee
Making a baby.
I placed spy cameras ’round
Without sound
Recorded, played, rewound
Yet found
The idea wasn’t clear
So here,
And there
I put a sound.
To expound, I did it,
I admit it,
I clicked edit
And you bet it
Sounded good
Last night…
But now
An imagined voice sounds clear and right.
“Royce,” it says, in mother’s voice,
“Maybe boing was not the best choice.”