Compilation of Thought-Dilation: Poems
by Theo Henson — 2022-03-08
Disparate etymologies separate homophones. Desperate mythologies progenerate DM-zones. You flew the belated balloon, Ruminated, rated, and mused —Now what is there to do? Competitive biologists seek unlabeled tree frogs. Disillusioned ex-linguists speak non-prescribed word-wrongs. He found what was never before, Not once asked her why he wanted —Now who lies on the floor?
Writhing Reviewer Blues
With a punk-rock-but-not-pop-punk spunk The objective music critic Makes up for his taste With his prose and his wit. He tries not to sound base With his pick of hits Thinking no news are "A"s. Just make his ears tick Stroke of luck, not grace Happened to pen it with BiC.
All of 'em always offered an advice: Avoid alliteration. Soliloquy: "Something's simply serendipitous: Sliding same-sounding syllables!" Where to begin: Why talk boringly? Wasting tongues bickering which type's better? —What? Totally benign. Colloquy: "Can't you feel the urge to repeat?" "Correct, yippee! Freeing, this yearning 'tis ripe." As it stands, all is smooth; Flowing thoughts, frighteningly thick. How humorously have hindered we by them! Grammar grotesquely gambits greatness. Whoa be this! Moral of the story: Make often things strangely.
Actual Information Auction
News clues you in on Show tune goons three years Old mold in the basement Hasten it. Brace pasted on construction Paper maker of the plant Green cleaner doesn't shine Mine it. Dine behind the dumpster Truck bucks trash back to Pile miles high going down Drown it. Brown gowns weaved on Machines leavened with sour Bread led to toast Roast it. Coast mostly downhill around Easily breezy in your face Ear pierced with gold It sold.
East Bay, No Delay
I follow the path straight I pedal through towns, past gates Wheels roll me all the way I'm taken to the final stretch Where the Providence gets Divided in two Like a parted sea I'm led as an escapee Wheels roll me all the way I pedal to the city—if my bike doesn't break I follow the path straight
I prepped the night before the night before The time vagrant vagabonds loaned Bohemian ragtime rags to Unsung lads say "Rule Britannia", think: cruel Britannia? I planted seeds that grow the more they grow When an aggrandizing advertisement defies your self-best-interest. The more I go the less I get anywhere—get it? I can't move without moving off-topic—stop it.
A Neologic Poet Wrote It
Ampersandstone unites separate sediments Handlebartool drives cyclists' screw Notreasuretrove finds sparkle shimmers Whateverwhom is silence silky Dismemberclub invites Sunder Severs But strangerisk rips van candy out of child's handy hand, man You need a nonsequiturtestur
Will you sell your drum set in pieces? It's simple: I just need some cymbals. Even nimble fingers sew with thimbles, though. Whoa! I never knew you needed that to make hats. Mercury's gone berserk, you see, So every drop counts, fluid ounce. "Pounce!" goes the cat to the mouse; If only there were one for louse. Get dressed, darling, protest: baseball's Spalding. Lose your hair, hope it's not balding. Help! I don't want to wear a glove. Pigeons and doves are the same, love. Do tennis menace pendants flow in the wind? Or is that only for the flag thing. Pledge allegiance every morning—boring. Touring with the band's not the same as heart-placed hand. Do you really love it? Or do they just shove it. Boom! Drum fill. Don't spill from the bucket on Jack-and-Jill hill. Boom! Oil drum hit. March around the ick or you'll get the bad end of the stick. A yellow brick road, painted with gold, showed No one to happiness ever, Because we're still in Kansas. Can't escape corn-filled ranches. At least we won't starve, Though we've got to wear some rather drab garb.
When talking to high-fructose-born syrup Maple trees in Vermont blush a jealous green; Grief strikes them as they see the turning tides. How come your sugar's sweeter than mine? Do I deserve it? To be debased by something so turpid? Lick the bricks by my roots; Old-fashioned sucrose won't melt your tooth.
Anagrammatical: A Magna-Art Claim
One host he drone soothed en on her née hornet's hood, so honed thereon. Shoehorned note enthrones doe—oh! Son thee honored hooted nor sheen the horse on-node. Three shoe don on shed here to noon. No others heed on. Oh no! Sheered ton neon-horde ethos. Do the non-heroes so need the honor? —Or he not heeds no sheeted rho on no one throne he sod. —Then Eden or shoo! Honest hero done none soothed her. Need shoehorn to do no nether shoe? —Or he doth seen no one horned theos? Oh, ne'er do honest horde net no shoe. Heros need not—oh? Theor' done shone no horn do seethe. Hoo! Señor, the end. Theodore Henson