Resolutions in C minor

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Critics

Dear Sirs,

I've been reading the literature you produce for some time now and I feel the time has come to address a few issues I have with it. I am not by nature a bellicose individual but your web log has broken through my gentle spirit and given me a case of the sour waters. I am a man who finds himself often afflicted with a variety gastric distresses. Your foolish rambling and crimes against sentence structure only serve to aggravate an already delicate equilibrium of colonic upwellings and vaporous surges. You manage to summon from me the most mournful, sonorous farts ever witnessed by myself or my fellow public library patrons. In my 37 years as an assistant crutch assembler for the Knights Of Columbus I have never had to subject my underlings to such powerful gaseous outpourings. I can hardly find the appetite for my deviled eggs and medicinal cabbage water any more. Only yesterday I was stuck on stalled subway car so I decided to partake of my lunch of prune reduction, duck bisque, and sardines sandwiches, when my mind turned to your last post. It upset me so much that my subsequent bottom bossa nova caused a poor prostitute to faint, and an elderly man to vomit up his breakfast stew. It lasted nearly 45 seconds and a small man whom I had inadvertently pinned against the sliding door had to be lead away by caring hands and placed into a doctor's care. Much of my modest income is taken up by the various wrappings, cummerbunds, and foundation garments that my various internal concerns demand. My hips, thighs, and each buttock necessitate several swaddling procedures and your foolish twaddle puts me back to square one every time. If I didn't take the time between dressings to have some buttermilk and onions with a slice of black pudding, then I don't think I could cope. In conclusion Sir, your blog is utter drizzles, and it's giving me the shits something cruel, so stop it.

Yours

Latimore DeBounce

Poetry Hutch

Grand Mall Epoxy

From wind upon the bloated spruce
To the holy legs of Jesus
The sour belch of nature's scorn
Sends bees and cakes to please us

The dog will hump on Uncle Bruce
As turkeys crush between us
My father wore a silken gown
Beneath the light of Venus

fin

The above poem brought a ignominious end to the third annual Ladies Town Hall Literary Awards Supper Social when the author strode nude and filthy through the buffet shouting his work at the top of his lungs while tossing plastic cups of body fluids and solids among the assembled literati. Althea McMannus, the organizer and hostess of the event, was pleased with both the reading and the overall success of this year's event. The controversial 'dirty protest' theme was an unusual one for this annual charity, pot luck literary gathering whose assemblage is more used to stylized readings of Walt Whitman or musical interpretations of Robert Burns. We look forward to next year's event with great interest.