The Ballad of Roger Singeon-Smythe

Random Musings are the way of us
To the potential uniqueness of each garlic clove
Hanging around their names
Humour, book and vocabulary...
These are the virtue of Roger Singeon-Symthe.

Seen in the daytime, Roger Singeon-Symthe
Come battle with Gustav Mahler
Rightly perhaps without the night bird I have turned the pages of a newspaper called Le Soir
Under the living lines that my cane and vocabulary project
For I am prepared for battle
For I strike this pose
Yet by honour
I am
Seeking
Always yet bound by virtue

First, running, always personal
Usually is perhaps
Crouching like a hunting Tiger
Kobra, the enemy
Without the character of glass
It may be seemingly ineffective against conformity,
To many a mystery
To many a hero

A poem by the Cloned Corpse of Marcus Tal

Google the last living bane of central European Ethnocentrism

Phylax Hellene
is threatened,
in a ton of the first thoughts of mankind
A heady brew of domestic Greek corruption & Greek Cypriot leaders
Using a Web search to inflict a religion of legislation.

Those even mentioned in favor of this
Yorgo; Greece and the Stalinists
would be a strong element
not as heavy as Strontium Dog.

The Phylax Posts
remain the right place
positive stress on good
genuinely disgusted with some foreign policy
the current approach to viewing pornography

Yet, the last to fall
Phylax Searched this
database of compuphobes and termites
To defy the parliamentary legal, judicial
the GIANT CYBER SPIDER'S TOUCH
and the three previous seasons of 24

For the feel the giant spider's touch and revel in its name
Google the last living bane of central European Ethnocentrism
The ark of evil web searches, the graven idol of computeriestes and hallowed compuphobes
Phylax Hellene is threatened
Accounting for the notorious modernizing regime of the internet and its massive Phallanx

A poechemitcal opus by The Cloned Corpse of Marcus Tal

Inspired by the blog of the mighty Phylax

A collaborative Internet Poem I wrote a verse for...

SUN KILL MOON

Darkest hours
Darkest night
Deathly silence
Darkness height

Darkest is the
Dress of dreary
Dastardly killing in
Deadly fury

Darkest sun
Encompass all
Fiery cold
Moon must fall

Dimly lit sky
Buring brightly
Damning facade
Sinning slightly

Luna, my moon, so much I adore
Thou shall stay forevermore?
The sun that I thee abhor
So much hatred, useless metaphor

cradle not its fallen crest
under mornlight none shall rest
revealed to all, these acts of violence
sows unrest, the deadly silence

Mean Helios awaits
Turning of tide he baits
Up ashore the sea light
Moon weeps, Sun is blithe

take me to thy waves
sweep away this pain
as the sun gradually kills
the dark moon again

Funky Banana We worship You,
Funky Banana they Eat You,
Banana on a Stick without a clue,
Poisoned, Dark, Deathly, Funky Banana will KILL You

This last verse was crafted by own subtle hand...

This fine poem was word forged on the site of Sorrow X by his many readers and fellow poets.

I AM ZARDOZ, I AM THE FLYING MACHINE

Puny mortals worship at the ALTAR of Zardoz's Manly Body

I pronouce Zardoz with dialogue
That renegade
I holds a strange beast
Financed by perky British actresses
The denizens of Earth worship my plot
and my flying machine

The science fiction genre opposed to fall together
I am the big flying machine.
After 45 minutes of Eric Idle
and the good nature of motion lamps.
Happiness is a shipment of
a shipment of Zardoz's words
Freshly minted by Meteor Run and the NRA
Cosseted by my codpiece
I AM THE FLYING MACHINE.

I AM ZARDOZ, THE FLYING MACHINE
Words Spill from my mouth making manly leather mugs
Each containing a renaisance festival of psychotropic prose
Worship my bizarrely uneven body... reforming notions of physique
Gaze upon the adonis who has eaten Paul McCartney's nose
I am the Vortex of manly calm flying machines
I am Zardoz and this involves people having sex.
For I AM ZARDOZ
I have a pony's tail
For I AM ZARDOZ
I have a pistol
The name is ZARDOZ
REMEMBER IT

A poem by the Cloned Corpse of Marcus Tal
Inspired by the crazed comments of the manly netizen who frequents Scruffy American's site

The Sexy Powar of Floots

Come Suck my floot

Import Floot's tools into your life
Thud with placid force
The season be right for digging ditches
seeking play penetrating expletives and grit

Floot's POWAH partially crafted by irate woodworkers
An electric current increased...
by the loving triumph of dynamite
will blast apart your private mills, ponds, and craps
A relief released, a scud of love and errant freedom
Across creation, like rainwater from the sawmill
where the millmore is long
come munch and suck my floot

A Poem by the Cloned Corpse of Marcus Tal
inspired by the magical power of Floots

You don't realise what you do to me...

David Hasselhoff is the Mozart of Pop Music

Bow before his magic, you must...