Author: Mike Crowl

SWORN to silence once the
RADIO is on. No conversation, nothing that will
USURP the concert’s dominance. I’m off to bed
SINCE no one wants to talk.

SATIN dress of resplendent sheen on slippery dance floor. A
CRASH – he’s let her slip from his grasp. Shock? Horror? No,
SMIRKs from some, or sneers – no love lost here from rivals;
SCOFFs and jeers from dumb-minded dolls in cotton frocks.

CHOCK full of loopy maxims, my mind erodes.
LOOPY as I am, I still gather groupies.
MAXIMS I offer, the groupies grab them, and my words
ERODE their naïve, untutored, lacking-in-history minds.    

You’re a big BOULE, you’re a SHOWY show-off.
I don’t like the TENOR of your manner, and I’d
never ELOPE with you, not even if you shunned your
SHOWY show-offness. Be gentle, you big BOULE.

DROLL. The twitch in my eye seems to be the result of the dentist grinding on my
MOLAR. (My grinder ground.)
OPTICally odd. How does that intermittent drilling
MARRY up with a continual twitching?       

FAITH sprigs eternal; JUICE a moment, it’s
hope that springs. I misPENNEd that.
Just as SPRIGs isn’t springs and
JUICE is just. Blame it on a stuffed up nose.

CRAWL comes up on Google when I search for Crowl,
A TOLL I have to pay for having a name so close.
I could express outrage and say I’ll BROOK
no further misalignment. But I don’t have the SAUCE.

Boy, am I ANNOYed
that every time I FLUSH
the toilet it becomes an isolated ISLET
amidst a vast and smelly sea – until I AWAKE.

[The quality of my writing has gone downhill since I’ve been on holiday.]

“LAGER, please.” The barman, known to all as
FINCH, poured the drink, sneered
“CREPT in here the day you’re going to
marry that girl? What for? Dutch courage?”

An

OUNCE is a curious name for a cat

SLYLY stalking prey in the wild,

CRAWLing through mountainous terrain far

ABOVE it’s lowlands feline species cousins.