Nuffy Noe is the Terrible Poet

I did not sign onto this blog to get into verbal communcation wars with somebody what was a "Late Comer" to the Dictionary, and a guru of phony "Five Times Better" snake oil cult promotions, and a person what is terrible at the poetry. Nuffy Noe, your, how you going to say, eulogy poem to Marcel Marceau was a nauseating disgrace to the written word and to the memory of the so many poets what lived and write the poems down through the centuries. You are not the good poet. You are not even the bad poet. You are the so awful poet that your poem is like an old ball of deviled ham rolled around in an elephant's diarrhea and buried in the earth for seven month, then dug up, spat on by three very flu-laden chimpanzees and finally force fed to a starving lamb. Yes, it was that ruinous and terrible, what you writed. Marcel Marceau, the King of all White Paint Faces Persons, had his memory disgraced, sickened, schmozzened and disturbed, and his honor smothered in cow tongue scrapings by your hideous wreckage of a poem.

I trust all of our three dozen readers of this blog will agree.

Consequently, I propose a Poem Off. We shall see, Mrs. Not Five Times Any Good At All, who is the, how you can say, bester poet among all the scribes of the Dictionary of the Ideas Which Are Unfortunate. I draw the first blood! The topic of our poems shall be: Ostrich Egg


The Egg That Break the Sky
by Jorge Carlito Viejo

How come the egg, which is the smallest of all the earth's shell-encased yolk objects,
Can hatch ideas and give birth to visions of blubbery round stomachs,
Like maggots birthed from the corpse of my childhood. Why is this so?
How can it be that the cracking of that white, hairy shell of the egg
Can look like long vertical bars to me, enshelling my body for three years?
How come it is that a short, short and squatty egg can walk the earth, free as a summoned idea,
When we all know he deserve some kind of terrible beating about the face and personality
With a hammer not made of metal or wood or salad or bullet, NO,
but a hammer made of justice, compassion, words, vomited statements and interjections,
That gush from the gaping maw of all truly free beings like milk-thick throat water?
Someday, the written words and the spoken words will have relations with each other,
The way we learned about relations being had in junior high Health Class,
and the mewling, damp infant they give birth to will be called Truth,
and he will never shut up! He will howl the Truth late into the darkest minutes of the night,
the truth about a man who resembles an Ostrich Egg and who has the secret name,
the name that is like vinegar dripping through crushed velvet--Devito, Devito, Devito.


end

Top that, Five Times Smellier!