Badonk-a-honk-a-tonk

Badonk-a-honk-a-tonk

 

In fluted trills, trumpeting, booty blares.

Orifices agape with brotherly love –  bursting

broken limbs, demons, a bored monk blurts

forth a fart.  Precious ink, lapulis and gold held

in, bursting out of ink wells and parchment,

no holding back.  This tuckus toots.

 

Butt triumphant, a-heralding of glories to come.

In hell, get stuffed, pour forth.  In heaven,

a bouquet, a posy in pink and blue.

 

Goatse is nothing new.  Boschian bleating bums

in the key of see: butt music, a garden of earthly delights.

 

 


Na/GloPoWriMo Day Twenty-Two asks us to cross disciplines:

“Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that engages with another art form – it might be about a friend of yours who paints or sculpts, your high school struggles with learning to play the French horn, or a wonderful painting, film, or piece of music you’ve experienced – anything is in bounds here, so long as it uses the poem to express something about another form of art.”

I’ve long been a secret Medievalist at heart, and desperately love manuscript marginalia where scribes, in their long days of copying calligraphy (and perhaps a little touched by paint fumes) scribbled their passing thoughts, their jokes, their curses, their day-dreams, and their horrors.  I originally thought of writing this about killer bunnies, but I quickly moved into butts, butt-trumpets, butt-music, and the many butts of Bosch.

Some reference images:

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