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Commedia del Arte

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Summer's sonnets estivaux | Love's Labour Lost? | Commedia del Arte | Ah, a Poet's Life!
 
Sonnets Sunny Side Up!  des sonnets perce-nuages!
 
Sunny,  summer day!  Que le soleil est beau!
Sunny, summer day! Que le soleil est beau!
If these sonnets by our inininimmitableble company don't make you laugh yourself hysterically silly, then I don't know what will!    I mean, what on "oith" were you doing reading them in the first place?
 
Si les sonnets ci-dessous sans dessus dessous sans des sous ne te font pas partir à rire, ou du moins, sourire comme une souris qui sait sourire souvent à tous les chats sous ris, eh bien,  je ne sais guère ce qui puisse te ressusciter de la mort!

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Sara Russell.  Poetry Life and Times

    Nemesis of Sanity

      You are the nemesis, the Satan spawn, Affront to the constraints of sanity, You are the blood-red clouds of evil's dawn, Your very presence is profanity, You spin with stretched-out reams of wasted time, You bring the bees to sting, the saints to curse, Bring chaos down, then flee the guilty crime, You harbour all that's putrid and perverse, I ever and again regret the day When your foul installation came to be! I yearn for you to be light years away Instead of being such a bitch to me. For I will smash you with a club of flint, Now I've re-booted, if you will not print!!! © Sara L. Russell, July 2001
    Sara Calling the Potato of Terror
      Potato! Dear tuber of transvestites I burn to read your words upon the page, I quiver to behold your spandex tights, Your high heeled thigh boots, which are all the rage. Astound us with your sonnets of the deep, dark, passionate, wild rantings of the night! Our hairdressers were hitherto asleep - We cannot match your curl, nor blond highlight; For we are all but dancers on the air, While you are an entrancer of the earth, You have the waves of wisdom in your hair, You have the strength of Mighty Bulbous Girth. Potato, tickle us with feathers soft, Before you wave your fearsome flail aloft! © Sara L. Russell, April, 2001

The Potato Tarquin of Terror
The Potato Tarquin of Terror!

    FROM The Lost Book of Tuberlantis
      Potato of Terror to Sara LOVE POTATO OF THE NIGHT I am a tuber of the Deeper Earth, A miracle of burgeoning desire: I am Potato, I am great of girth born of the boiling tuberescent mire. Laugh not at my be-whiskered bulging flanks! Nor yet at my high heels and ballet dress; I am as a great river with burst banks, I am an oblate mass of naughtiness. The multi-flowered petals of the spring Burst forth with passionate furls of desire, Even as I remain an untamed thing, Still mincing forth with petticoats afire. Let naiads sing! Let underwear ignite! I am the Love Potato Of The Night!! © by the Potato of Terror, April, 2001

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His/Her? Excellency, the Tuberlantian Potato Tarquin of Terror
<< la pomme de terre terrible >>
Alias, His/ Her Royal Hindness, The Munchkin


    Sonnet for the Munchins of Desire How shall I tame the flames of passion's fire, Whene'er they lick the flip sides of my knees? How shall we quell the Munchkins of Desire When they inflame us with lust's lunacies? Love's tubers stand up in priaptic glee, As star cross-dressers quiver in the wings; The feathers of dark fancy tickle me And bring my mind to dream of naughty things. Ineffable great wobblings of the muse Disturb me and electrify my brain, With whispered words to beckon and confuse, And immolate my underwear again. No bromide tea, nor song of lute or lyre, Shall ever quell the Munchkins of Desire! © The Potato of Terror, July, 2001

Yeah sure, stick it to me, patate!
Your Canuck Editor

    la tomate enragée à la patate perverse (The mad tomato to the perverted potato)
      Epistle to those Munchkins of Desire! Who knows? You Munchkins, débauchées of desire, could lose all your glucose, then come and raise cane to set a poor bloke's ole' chip stand a'fire! If you ask us tomatoes (our flesh is too lush!) why must you red spuds make such an inane FUSS over chip-chili con carne mush, when it's as plain as rain mainly in Spain les tomates are les filles, youse greasy brown chips! Our spice is délice to lovers who drain juices from us through their quivering lips, elixirs flamboyant, potions of love; They love us tomatoes. They'll decline spuds. Spring bears our sprigs in the beak of the dove! Roses agree. You poor tubers are duds! © by Richard Vallance, July 2001
    De following comment his in "franglais" or "Frenglish"
    Seriously, though, folks, our pal, his (or her, I'm not sure!) Excellency, the Potato Tarquin of Terror's sonnets are halways a riot to reads! Howevers, dat does not precludes duh fact that I, la tomate enragée du Canada decide to makes dis 'eres challange to/ à la patate perverse de l'Angleterre (you knows, deHunited Kingdoms) to tackle justifiable concernes dat I, like is esteemèd beta carratoid collègue (also from Hengland), haves halways to brings to his demented hattention. Alors, wid hall dat in mind, chers amis readers, permits-moi to bid you a fond "au revoir" (huntils de next times)! Richard

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