femboss as grandioid as butts no no
all come-upped to this the hard road
ladders-away her callout reverberises
and whacko to the badlots all thems
who were too lastful to be additive
o she got the bigguns right-ho and then
none would quip the legals for such she scrived
opprobriate and bootstiff all jack-snipe
and thimbine on the nebule she cock-a-hula
gifting no half no quarter not an octet
more’s the pity but for her no squidget of it
while snideling the length of a downbeak stare
she say the sideways ent sauf for nob-doddy
out of my stride ye bagavond ladles and mens
it was youse wot choised so youse’ll get cotched
wozzit gets a geizurette hi-horsity hellbended
on turfitude for the intenters and the nowhirrs
zit pecuniars and the trappines mackemtorese
think no tatterdenomates count a whitter
oh Mistruss Bravo she just gettafuzz and clinkem
sa forken disgradation, so tizz!
It’s been coming down the line. Home Secretary Braverman’s heartless take on the rest of humanity. Good word, that; she has humanity in short measure…
This, then is the poem I decided to render meaningless for my exercise in ‘asemic writing’.
The poem itself is written in nonsense for the most part. (I sensed a note of Tom Leonard creeping in.) But maybe with some meaning still to be construed. As ever, with writing, I still can’t resist giving away the meaning after all. It’s what I do.
all come-upped to this the hard road
ladders-away her callout reverberises
and whacko to the badlots all thems
who were too lastful to be additive
o she got the bigguns right-ho and then
none would quip the legals for such she scrived
opprobriate and bootstiff all jack-snipe
and thimbine on the nebule she cock-a-hula
gifting no half no quarter not an octet
more’s the pity but for her no squidget of it
while snideling the length of a downbeak stare
she say the sideways ent sauf for nob-doddy
out of my stride ye bagavond ladles and mens
it was youse wot choised so youse’ll get cotched
wozzit gets a geizurette hi-horsity hellbended
on turfitude for the intenters and the nowhirrs
zit pecuniars and the trappines mackemtorese
think no tatterdenomates count a whitter
oh Mistruss Bravo she just gettafuzz and clinkem
sa forken disgradation, so tizz!
© BH, 2023
It’s been coming down the line. Home Secretary Braverman’s heartless take on the rest of humanity. Good word, that; she has humanity in short measure…
This, then is the poem I decided to render meaningless for my exercise in ‘asemic writing’.
The poem itself is written in nonsense for the most part. (I sensed a note of Tom Leonard creeping in.) But maybe with some meaning still to be construed. As ever, with writing, I still can’t resist giving away the meaning after all. It’s what I do.
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