Camelot Sex
Amelia leans forward,
heaves a sheaf of shoving cyborg
mocha lotion clean loafer the rail,
laments the flossing of bilious bicuspids
in savory scenes stamped county-wild
from Clean Hibiscus Currying Cot
to Cantilevered Chumpy Strop Container
Rivulets of Malaprops in Fluid Isms,
bent matronly in falling creeks
of perspiration’s fugitive embrace:
“Quad flailest thou,
mine solidarity marker,
whence nouns have sparkled sup
the elongated treasonous pee-strained
groupies of slum heretoever inflamous
schlock bland of Inculcrassical Wreckage?”
(She is no doubt reefering
to an ubiquitous surfeit of bowels,
movements in orchestrio snot
with popular standoff’s
inguinal gurney insignias.)
RFK-357,
fresh from swirled tour
of seventy disheveled planetary shipping stumps,
foisting publican wreck-to-wretched non sequiturs
in noon’s salacious ergot minibar repudiation kick,
guaranteed to break-in votive lector
collage hung antsy plaudits,
well he schleps right offal
endometrial systemic transport
ass though mired Imogene sonographic lesions
crowd outa hex gray compartments
of Swirled Whore II’s sweaty veterinarians,
happen to reappear flung dime
to pre-inflationary clime
in pensive newsreel smiles
of Psych In Shower’s inaugural redress
or Mugless Dick Archer’s berated farewell sleet
(er maypole his rerun ta da Flippin’ Sheen Pylons,
accompanied by sartorially hacked Sharky Mean
in sole reprise of Paracowlips Juan’s directorial cutlet,
nunneries knotted under blond secluded eyes):
“Eye, uhh, ma’am, is they-a any, uhh,
easily accessible uhh schwimming pool uhh nea-ah by?”
Brushing forelocks auburn and evergreen
so proto-Sexties ova his uhh left eye
in expert nonchalance,
comely slake clover woof-woofian move,
lugging Sean Cannery’s blithely mottled
pet canary strayed outa wading electoral baggage.
Amelia mists up a blot,
addled hint of Camelot Sex,
mammaries of many
a dotted I and crushed tease,
thin recoups her savior fury
in phonetic alimentary
recalling carp:
“Why yes, Mustard Precedent,
bet first we need ewe indie Whore Room!
Ride tinseled whey,”
leading Blobby by the steady lobotic hand,
down Puntagain Corregidor in maze
of silent auction doorway slide to Graylien
sin counterpart contemporary
pasteboard corset wheel.
Ladled Miss Louvre,
henceforth Roxanne DeBries,
erstwhile dirigible pilot hex straw dinar,
festive bet nod a little bestial balloon mechanic,
conflator of bicycle tires and manly a titled
lung playing record breaker,
rumored to be half humid hound huff lobotic
weed chesty dacha of good ole cranapple spy
troweled in fur coldcocked bolt-action pleasure;
well Miss Louvre
slopped on the foreskin slogans,
particle blemishes filling Blobby’s
searingly sunburned eyes,
till hail frosted soldered lobotic fusion creams
to Everest spoken sword he’d heavenly uddered,
wood udder, or cowed shaver
hobble to seven Imogene.
Whey his entire mint becalmed glued open
(or shout, prepending swan your polled
ethical pontifical pewter feints)
furtively oar knotty baseboard turpentine
torpedo breath of pressed bleat stern mineralogy.
“Twat otter hold you for a centaur eye or two!”
Roxanne exclaimed, deftly tapping
Blobby’s abdominal access panel,
swiping up lingering glob of asterisk effusion
podiatry sauce for furtive licking font collusion
tryst in latter-spay subway preen.
“Which way, uhh, ma’am, is the spaceport?
Eye habitually have uhh mere minutes to spare,”
RFK-357 lurched into whistle stop mode.
Roxie popped a forefinger out of pursed lips,
savoring the rarefied tendencies
of Camelot Sex rotation brew:
“Now, now, Master Precedent!
You canoe midge batter thin Allah theatrical nonsense!
Time pauses match mire quackily hare in the Whore Room.
Whey, icon jest tap task timely crouton here and… presto!
It’s an hour ago again and we’re just getting undressed…”
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