Alphabet Soup
by Skippy LeBonne 

Anemic anteaters
from Azerbaijan
bounce from brassieres
and bark at batons.
Cold-water codfish cause
cramps in the colon of a
dark-dimpled debutante
named Deborah Dedolin.
East of the egg factory, eyes can enjoy
fat-fingered Francophiles
fasting in festive Flournoy.

“Great!” gabbed the grouse-eating Gregory Gregross.
“How homey, a heart heals in the hearths of hosts.”
Incredulous Incans inspect his inflection while
judicious Japanese gents make joking suggestions.
Kiss-kindling Kansans knit knives in a knot as
laconic Laotians look lazy a lot.

Merely making mention of meatloaf as he might
Nicholas Nanewton needs news of the night:
“Only obliging an orange or one oat…
perhaps peas, persimmons, parsley? Please promote
quietly, quaintly and quite quick the quality of radishes and rubarb and ruffled red roe!
Salmon swim stateside and slip slightly slow
through thoughts that trip toward the tip of my toe,
underneath unusual ulcers until or unless
venomous vitamins vent my vile stress.”

Wouldn’t we want well-worded wishes which
examine such exciting expository expertise on dishes?
“Yes, young Yertle, yesterday you might. Yet
zebras zipping zeppelins is too much. Goodnight.”

Scream, You Monkey
I saw the best mimes of my generation destroyed by a mulatto with a flame thrower and a huge man-eating whale with rubber tires. Oh my God he’s coming!

The Walrus Said
The time has come, the walrus said, to smoke a box of crack. Fucking walrus! Stay out of my drug box, and you’re standing on my sack!