Sunday, May 3, 2015

The Terrible Poetry of Percival P. Pederast

I've taken some time out from building an altar to my cat and making sweet love to boys to share my Pulitzer Prize-winning poetry with all you cretins. Make sure you smoke plenty of dope before reading a single line. Otherwise, none of it makes sense. But then again, it is not poetry's function to "make sense," whatever that means. Poetry is supposed to sound cool and pretentious and make everyone think that you're smarter than them. Poetry is supposed to enable you to woo random boys off the streets. Poetry is how I speak to my cat.

This first poem, entitled Dilemma, took three and a half years to write. It is among my finest compositions. Behold! I give you the stuff that dreams are made from!


It's what's for dinner.

Masterful, isn't it? I love its economy of word. A single exclamation quickly resolved with no argument. If only all of life could be like Dilemma. Everything would be so much easier.

This next one is an argument I've had with my cat. Life is naught but petty arguments. Cats say some terrible things.

Why I Do Not Want You to Piss in My Shoes 

Lucifer, my dear,
You are the light in my hobo-hole,
The anus of my eye,
The pubic hair caught helplessly in between my teeth.
Why must you insist on urinating in my shoes?
Have I not fed you?
Have I not worshiped the elder cat gods?
Did I not bring you
An entire family of mice to annihilate?
Sometimes I think that my kindness is wasted
On your bestial visage.
Sometimes I think that you do not care.
In the future,
Please refrain,
From excessive urination
or I will,
So help me god,
Castrate your furry ass.

Unfortunately, Lucifer was not swayed by my arguments, and I had to get rid of his balls.

Controversial in its content, my next poem was responsible for the sullying of my name, as well as my addition to the federal sex offender list.

 Let's Stop Farting Around and Do Some Boy-Loving

Hey guys, what's the fuss?
I've got myself some man-boy lust.
I'll put it there if you stick it here,
If you dance around,
With a crown,
In a fancy dress,
We must confess
Our dire predicament in your arms.

Hey boys, give me ten,
I'll lock you up in a pen,
With pigs and goats,
Abandon hope,
No one can live
Without their ribs,
Though I'll give it a go,
If you go slow,
You stinky, fat-hobo fucker.

Let it be known,
That nobody told me
Your legal age,
and that,
Everything you consented to
Is considered legal
In France.
Let us, then,
Be husband and boy,
Forever united
In our mutual admiration
Of the man-boy form.
Kudos, to you, young lad,
You have just banged
A Pulitzer Prize winner.
 Though I have had
My stinky fingers
In your bum.
So the joke's on you.

Yeah, in retrospect, that one might have been pushing it. But that's the poet's job: to lead society into dark depravity where it fears to tread. Society is a coward, you see. It knows not the lordship of felines, nor the pleasures of the man-boy. There is much I can teach society. Did you know, for instance, that you can build an altar out of cheese? Your cat will appreciate it. You must keep your cat happy, lest it devour your face while you sleep. I wear a mask while I doze for protection against Lucifer, who carries a vendetta against me for his castration. We all wear masks. I just take mine off every now and then.

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