Flammeus Gladius

Carmina et Verba pro Discipulis Meis

Tag: prose

Rectal Probery

Rectal Probery

 

Wrong, Pezzulo. Rape isn’t my topic.
Such assumptions are, well, misanthropic.
Rapists? Ain’t been no sighting.
It is just that your writing
Is unbearably colonoscopic.

 

–Tom Riley

 

 

(The Pezzulo accuses critics of psychic rape.)

Saint of Patience

Saint of Patience

 

Her prose would make a saint of patience curse.
When it is not a shaft right up the ass,
It’s just like itching powder, only worse.

A blunt virago swings a weighted purse
While croaking comments infinitely crass.
Her prose would make a saint of patience curse.

A cloud of gnats attends and won’t disperse.
Reader, you’re in the midst of that sad mass!
It’s just like itching powder, only worse.

In idiotic oceans she’ll immerse
Your consciousness, this self-important lass.
Her prose would make a saint of patience curse,

A soaring angel shriek and hit reverse.
Or sometimes it’s diffuse, her vapid sass:
It’s just like itching powder, only worse.

New tortures she is eager to rehearse.
Her ear is tin, her vocal organs brass.
Her prose would make a saint of patience curse.
It’s just like itching powder, only worse.

 

—Tom Riley

Whiner

Whiner

 

We have diverticulitis.

 

—The Whiners

 

As if the rectal torture of her style
Were not enough, she has to offer us
Accounts of suffering. As querulous
As Julia upon the lonely isle
Of exile, she is ready to revile
The Fates with words that drip both spit and pus.
It’s Bitch-About-Your-Problems Day, and thus
She serves us up a steaming pot of bile.
Actually, we’re receiving this crap late—
Which calls forth further whines in limping prose.
Perhaps I ought to care about your fate,
Señora Dolorosa. Goodness knows
That charity trumps spite as love trumps hate.
In truth, though, I conclude your essay blows.

 

—Tom Riley

 

(The Pezzulo whines about her health.)