Poet Authority Poem Terminal

Wilson grasped his thickest Sharpie.

Scrawled a penis crudely upon his forehead.

The pub lads would think he still had some friends.

The mechanic's pickaxe arrived!

He oiled up some overalls.

Snuck out in the camouflaged attire.

Hacked away at the roads.

Cackled into the night sky.

A whole armada.

Tugged away.

Trying for some sweet, sweet release.

It was an absolute nightmare.

Governments hadn't been doing a ghost census, no one knew how many vaccines to order.

Hospitals trialled ghost only days.

Queues looked empty, which really irked the living pop.

Doctors had to assume ghosts were sitting in the vaccination chairs.

They sloshed vaccines where arms might be and hoped for the best.

He got off at the next stop.

Picked up a can of chicken soup.

Got on the next bus.

Went home.

They met on weekends.

Hashed out some similar nouns for men.

Oh, what could have been.

He'll never know.

He'll never live the life of a behatted fellow.

He boiled up his mask.

Seasoned it.

Ate it.

Tried to convince the doctors that was enough.

That he no longer needed the vaccine.

Tried to explain it away as confusion.

Giggled as he clonked through the gate.

Shovel still dripping with mud.

He gnawed away at the bolts.

Rusted, oily.

Horrendous on the palate.

Eventually he worked them free.

His jaw ached and his teeth felt terrible.

Rachel went for curling try-outs.

Her husband always complimented her broom work.

Ruddy lockdown!

He needed to catch up.

Panic ordered bulk loads of green pigment from Amazon.

Dunked it in his drinks, threw it at the neighbours' pets.

Covered his whole house in the dust.

Even rubbed some into the grass.

Nothing was green enough!

He grabbed two fistfuls of the dye and got to work on his eyes.

His knees were cold.

The weather wasn't appropriate.

John declared war on Kenilworth Castle.

English Heritage staff were old and brittle.

They crumbled easily.

Victory!

He helped himself to some stale cake.

Unfurled a tea stained map.

Slapped it down on a café table.

Flicked open his Swiss Army Knife.

Jabbed it in Windsor.

She decided to become a witch.

Learned incantations while he was out of the house.

Occasionally called him to confirm efficacy.

Hoped he wouldn't pick up.

Dawn was shocked.

Her six-day-old baby somehow managed to fill out a Mother's Day card.

"She has your handwriting" Dawn observed.

She began questioning her husband.

Loaded the crib with pens and paper.

The manual dexterity just didn't seem to be there.

Flicked on the stopwatch.

He'd never get caught out again.

She loved it so much she carved it into the shape of a man.

Took it out on dates and eventually married it.

Lazed on his chaise longue.

He reached down and started noodling with the planet.

Superman got muddled and accidentally joined the KKK.

Lois was furious when he revealed the mistake.

Demanded he fly back and hand in the costume.

She wasn't even willing to hear out his arguments for the aerodynamic properties of their silly hat thing.

Dawn was screaming in pain.

"Where the fuck is the bird and all of that other shit?"

He was gagging, trying to hold back the vomit.

Trying to peel Dawn's fingers off his hand and get the hell out of there.

Scientists appeared on the television.

Boris Johnson was there too, still trying to make himself look as glum as possible.

They informed us we were getting too fat during lockdown.

Boris nodded in agreement, doing his best to hold his gut in.

Viewers started prodding at their bodies.

They seemed well aware of the situation and didn't really feel it needed to be brought up.

But it was way worse than anyone could have imagined.

Earth was getting too heavy and it was going to fall over unless we did something about it!

The government ordered everyone outside for daily runs.

No one was allowed to breathe while doing it, though.

I took to the streets,

Dodging the corpses of brave exerciseers who couldn't quite make it.

Lightheaded, I stumbled over a stray leg dangling out from the entrance to a house.

I staggered to my door.

Smashing away at it with the key.

Absolutely hopeless, I was too faint, I couldn't find the hole.

I shoved open the letterbox.

Thrust my gob deep inside.

Breathed in that sweet, sweet, fresh home air. 

Adults were informed it would soon be party day.

The government hatched plans to distract the covid.

They'd dangle children in front of it and have it chase them to school.

Once there men in hazmat suits would seal the lot up and adults would be allowed on the streets.

Everyone had to pretend it was just going to be a normal boring day though, otherwise it would all be cancelled.

People were already planning their outfits and ordering boomboxes online from Amazon while the children slept.

Houses filled with booze and grown-ups were messaging each other on WhatsApp talking about how they planned on getting hammered and licking absolutely everything.

Wilson caught himself a rabbit.

He looked forward to trying it out in town.

They'd devised a communication system to throw staff off the scent.

"Where's my 250g Red Label?" said one.

"I think some extra mature cheddar might be in order."

The two chuckled.

Other members of the gang wandered clockwise through the aisles.

They were consulting their dictionaries.

Trying to decipher this mess.

They fired up their barbecue trucks and headed to the nearest parking lot.

Every single Texan yeehawed in to celebrate.

They taped oozing meats to their biceps and let the juices seep in.

Vaccinated at last.

After learning his aunt died in a housefire,

Philip asked if they could get a discount on the cremation.

He dug out an old sewing kit and loaded the needles into his arms,

Erected his blood soaked thumb and selfied the catastrophe.

Scrawled "ready your maj" across the screen with a marker.

Sent his phone off to Buck Pal.