Poet Authority Poem Terminal

Dave liked this.

He liked the noise the cars made on wet roads.

Oh yes.

Eben slipped upon them.

His flesh wept.

A companion complained about the destruction of the vibe.

By the end I wished dancing had shot me.

If you know what I mean.

Didn't agree very much with each other.

This resulted in a bout of fisticuffs.

Their arms pendulumed betwixt one another,

Like pendulums,

But with fists on the ends.

After a few short minutes,

Of regular length,

They were spent.

Only their egos,

And memories of the night damaged.

Jim impressed her by swallowing some incredibly powerful ones,

And sticking himself on there too.

Put his cards in the washing machine.

They came out as an orangey colour.

He was too embarrassed to use them during the next game,

And made full use of his pointing finger and also the calm down gesture.

She had plans on watching the football (there's a world cup going on).

Apaches arrived to block the route.

Threatened to shoot her if she didn't turn back.

Beth's* arch grew ever deeper.

*Beth is a rainbow.

Looked rather fondly upon his patient's ears.

He circled them with his felt tip thing while sorting out the rest of the body with those lines they draw.

Assured the patient this was standard procedure.

The surgeon picked up his scalpel and gazed at the reflection within,

Fondling the flaps on the side of his head.

She couldn't find anywhere to wash her hands.

As a result her fingers smelled like cheese and onion.

This was bad.

Real bad.

To announce some new policies.

They were things like installing money vacuums in council houses,

And having hospital staff work 48 hour shifts to earn their butter sandwiches.

First that sort of thing sounded bad,

But then you realised the money would be going towards caviar and swimming pools and heating mansions and whatever else rich people liked.

So it didn't seem bad at all really.

"Where's my driver‽"

I ejaculated into a telephone.

It became clear my driver didn't exist.

I tried to explain how I must have arranged these plans in my sleep.

How they should anticipate this sort of thing happening.

This didn't help matters at all.

They barely even cared that I had places to be.

When he told people about what he'd done no one believed him,

Because they knew he was very ordinary.

It seemed unlikely that he'd have done anything spectacular.

It was BORING.

They didn't have any of the art he liked.

The kind with the men fighting with laser swords or anything like that.

Not the kind that would do your house,

But the useless sort with an easel.

He largely enjoyed the process,

Except the part where he'd have to deal with faces.

It's what art was all about, they thought.

So deep he found his fists pummelling away at the face of some politician.

The steps between this were too confusing to write down.

With their wide frames,

And even wider legs,

Squeezed into a very manly environment (shed).

They plonked down their weapons,

Engaged in some gruff manly grunting towards one another,

Establishing who was the manliest of them all.

Sometimes it's nice to cover something that actually matters for a change - manly men. The likes of Kratos and Thor.

But he forgot the clocks were changing.

So he missed the moon by about an hour and ended up going somewhere else in space instead.

His cat knew this.

He knew this.

Every day Percy would look at his cat.

He would ask the cat why it wasn't a dog.

The cat would just look back at him,

With its eyes,

And its ears,

And its tail,

And its fur.

All the features of a dog.

But not a dog.

A cat.

Chuckled to himself.

The can thing let out beeps of frustration,

Sought occasional acts of revenge,

Such as rolling over the golden guy's feet,

Or bumping into his legs while he was trying to maintain good etiquette.

Asked which appliances she was most familiar with,

Which she'd like to know more about,

Which she was excited to be using in the future.

None of this went down well with her or anyone else really.