It is April, which means it is once again National Poetry Month. It is also Autism Awareness Month, Sexual Assault Awareness Month, Confederate History Month, Jazz Appreciation Month, Child Abuse Prevention Month, Financial Literacy Month, and Mathematics Awareness Month. But since I am not a delusional Southerner who somehow thinks we should honor the losers of a bloody civil war who were on the wrong side of slavery, I think I’ll skip the Confederate history. I have never been into jazz, so I will gloss over that one too. I spend money like a drunk sailor in Thailand, so financial literacy is out. My beloved girlfriend (Hi Cheri!) is much more of an expert on the joys and challenges of raising an autistic son (whom I love too, Hi Tyler!), so I will leave that awareness in her capable hands. I have never sexually assaulted or been assaulted, but have several friends who have dealt with that tragedy. Again, they are better suited to discuss that awareness. As for child abuse… if I see someone abusing a child, which does not include appropriate spanking but does include verbally degrading a child, I will punch that someone in the face. Man or woman. Abuse prevented.
“What about math?” ask all the sticklers for symmetry out there. Are you satisfied that I used the mathematical term “symmetry” in the blog? That is all the math you get, nerds.
I use to write a lot more poetry than I do currently. Back in my youth, my emotions were powerful and fiery. They demanded to be put down in poetic form, using actual scratchy pencils and crumbled sheets of paper or leather bound journals. Now, in my advancing years, my emotions are more like campfire coals. Sure, you can blow on them and make them a little brighter, but really they just want to sit there and toast a marshmallow and be left alone. Not very conducive to poetic endeavors. Old poets are the worst poets in the history of every creative endeavor. Old poets writing poems are worse than a toddler trying to paint the Mona Lisa. Let me be clear: I do not mean trying to recreate the fabled painting, I mean literally painting on top of it.
Robert Frost was forty-eight when he wrote one of his most famous poems, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” It makes me fall asleep every time I try to read it. I cannot make it past the fourth line. Game, set, match.
Seeing as I am not quite to that advanced age yet, I figured I would give it one last shot. Each blog entry this month will contain a specific poetic structure and my attempts to rekindle the power of my inner crybaby, Goth, Emo, know-it-all, mullet-wearing teenage self. Since my life is defined mostly by my romantic entanglements/adventures, each poem will be dedicated to a current or former lover. Each of them will probably want to kill me afterwards, but that is half of the fun!
What will be the first type of poem I tackle? Drum Roll please…
Limericks, for those of you who purposely shoved your head into a blender during that particular section of English class, are poems of five lines. They usually follow an anapestic meter (duh duh DUH) and have a rhyme scheme of AABBA. Traditionally, the last line of a limerick somehow repeated the first line, but that convention is no longer required. It is also scholastically argued that a true limerick must be filthy and obscene, and any poem which does not break that social boundary is just a parody of a limerick. While the debate is still discussed in advanced poetry classes, I bet you can guess on which side of the aisle I reside.
The filthier the better. But some non-limericks are still pretty clever.
I would apologize in advance to my loves as they are about to be inserted into obscene limericks… but that just is not my style. They all knew what they were getting into when I fell in love with them. Plus they know I do not have a filter. Maybe you should just not read any further, my loves. There, at least I warned them.
Without further ado, I present the 2017 National Poetry Month Deviant Limericks!
Denise is a beautiful lass,
With a perfectly rounded ass.
You’d earn her deep thanks,
By giving hard spanks,
To Denise, that beautiful lass.
There is a beauty named Cheri,
whose cum tastes like fresh berries.
“It’s apple, you twit,
You’ve had quite a bit,
And your chance at more is nary.”
Lois has big floppy tits.
She can’t find a bra that fits.
So she uses your face,
As her boob-resting place,
Hoping you bite her a bit.
Young Jan with the non-existent hips
Possessed extraordinary, long lips.
Hung down to mid-thigh,
And rarely bone-dry,
Such a surprise when her undies were stripped.
Interested in my younger self’s attempt at poetry? Buy a copy of my self-published collection here. Shameless plug, I know. But it is a free blog, so you get what you pay for. Or don’t pay for. Whatever.