by M.C. McConnell
Dog-bard, a wall arose. Soon, a red, nude
man-era stole Gail of deli, and, lo, my tit-net
carts bade, “trap millions’ parts,” but a snag rose
many fits, and I’d reward no cabs. Eve[n]
Eve’s bacon drawer did nastify names, organs,
a tub, straps. No ill-imparted, abstract-entity mold
nailed foliage. Lots are named under a noose’s
oral law–a drab god.
66 words/259 letters
“No, Keep Rod on,” a brute lisps. “I’ll rig a Tulsa siren,
rut an item. Albinos, Mister [B]ret Simson, I blame.
“Tina Turner is a slut,” a girl lisps. “I let urban odor peek on.”
“Relapse,” he pondered. “No plasma, yet a straw,
Latin egret-sewer [g]rew Ester genital warts, ate yams,”
Al pondered. “Nope, he’s paler.”
Tia, winepots rub sun as risen. Infinity’s s[a]ssy tin
if nine sirs’ anus burst open. I wait.
Part Adam, I, Maria, help pins repel a lio[n],
oil a leper’s nipple hair. Am I mad? A trap?
Sun as Tim or felt tips laminate [w]et animal
spittle from its anus.