Category: MikeCrowl

An
ALARM goes off in my somewhat
BURLY self, as my long-time ill-treated
COLON cries, ‘Sit down!, take a sombre
PAUSE, and think.’   

_{[Images of the colon were generally too gross to use!]}

BOOTH, the founder of the Sally Army, loved a
LUSTY noise, a joyful noise unto the Lord, a
NOISE that roused sinners to seek salvation –
WHINY sinners (or better, winey), with drinkers of beer and spirits too.    

I AWAIT my often-late mate at the
CROSSroads. Above me, a solitary
EAGLE slides skywide spying for
MEATY roadkill. Something
SLICKened or even, on a good day,
SOLID, will do, some poor life traffic-
TAKEN. The eagle rises higher for a
WIDER view.            

Two women named Ann gave their names to Ann ARBOR;
I’d like to have a harbour named after me, or get a MEDAL –
a Michael Medal – and then perhaps I’d rise up from the TRIBAL
like a tall poppy, boozy on a highball, and a little WOOZY.

GRASP my left hand when you shake and say
HOWDY; my right hand’s holding a parcel, or in your
LINGO, a package. Sometimes I wish I had a
THIRD hand, just for shaking; especially when tough hands crush!           

BRAVO! says the field owner as I
GLEAN the wheat near the fence. As
PAYEE of his gift I don’t want to
SKIMP on picking up every last grain.

The
COLONoscopy had left battered young
HARRY in a perfectly precarious state, like a
LARVA who’d bumpily broken out of his cocoon by
SHEAR will and determination, and a misspelling of his process.   

APNEA, of the sleeping kind (naturally), is something my
ADULT little brother has. Many inducements to sleep (not of the
CANDY kind) have been offered, but nothing works. If he had an ULCER I’d hardly be surprised. But of ulcers I’ve heard not a peep.          

My
CLONE walked up to me on the street. ‘Hi,’ she said, ‘I’m the
SASSY version of you.’ This surprised me: I’m about as sassy as a
SKUNK. I said, ‘Surely clones are perfect copies,’ and abruptly
SWEPT her illusions up with a simple dustpan and brush.    

BUDGE the budgie? I think not. He’ll only start to
CHIRP fit to burst if you try to touch him. He has the
CYNIC bird’s view of life: every hand that comes near
DAUNTs him – he fears his last avian moment has arrived.
HONEYed words won’t change his view; calmly watching him
PREEN his feathers without interruption leaves a nagging doubt. A
SNARE is how he sees it, an attempt to snatch his tiny
TRACT of space on the planet, and replace him with a cat.