RHYS’ POETRY

Inspired by Shakespeare

The Spring

Against my shiny spring shall be as it is at the mo,

With Corrosion's injurious hand rust'd and o'erworn;

When oxygen has drain'd his metal and fill'd my hand

With lines and sprinkles; when springs youthful shine

Hath travelled on to guage's steepy night;

And all those bits whereof now he's sprung

Are vanishing, or vanished out of sight,

Stealing away the treasure of my spring;

For such a time do I now WDfortify

Against confounding guage's cruel vibrations,

That he shall never cut from memory

My sweet spring's spring, though my spring's time:

His shininess shall in these phosphors/liquid crystal/other lines be seen,

And they shall live, and he in them still shiny and springlike.

My Clock

My clock is as a lever swinging still,

For that which swung is jammed with link;

Feeding on that which doth preserve the angle,

The uncertain appetite of gravity to pull.

By reason, the physics to my clock,

Indifferent that his gravitations are in effect,

Hath tricked me, and I desperate to now improve

Jammed in mesh, which physics did except.

Past noon I am, now Reason is past afternoon,

And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;

My thoughts and my screwdriver as madmen's loom,

At random from the mouth vainly expressed;

For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee a sod,

Who art as black as hell, as dark as shite.

My Chips

How oft when thou, my potatoes, potato chop'st,

Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds

With thy sweet blade when thou sharply swing'st

The hairy concord that mine ear confounds,

Do I envy those snacks that nimble leap,

To kiss the tender inward of handy thighs,

Whilst my wet lips which should that harvest reap,

At my tongues lolling by thee dripping hang!

To be so smacked, they would change their state

And situation with those dancing chops,

O'er whom thy walk with gentle lops,

Making dead wood more starch'd than living hops.

Since saucy snacks so happy are in this,

Give them thy fingers, me thy chips to kiss.

Your Car

Unthrifty youthfulness, why dost thou spend

Upon thy car thy slavings legacy?

Bank's bequest gives nothing, but doth lend,

And being bank she lends to those for fee:

Then, beaudateous blaggard, why dost thou abuse

The bounteous large engine driven by thee a spiv?

Profitless insuree, why dost thou use

So great a sum of sums, thus canst not live?

For stuck in traffic with thy self alone,

Thou of thy self thy stupid self dost deceive:

Then how when solid tree calls thee to be gone,

What acceptable cash canst thou leave?

Thy unpaid bills must be tombed with thee,

Which really annoys wills executor to be.

Underthings

Forget me not to the finding of true underthings

admit sediments. Soil is not soil

which alters when it alteration finds underthings,

Or bends with the underthing remover to remove:

Oh no! it is an ever-moving jonnie boy

That looks like lamposts and is never stirred but shaken;

It is the fart to every wandering dog,

Wordsworth's unknown, although his fart be taken.

Soil's not rhym with tool, though rosy hips and cheese

within his bending and tickle's arse come:

Soil alters not with his briefs for whores and peeks,

But bares it out even to the edge of poo.

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever soiled.

The Stain

Oh, never say that I was short of fart,

Though absence seemed no blue flame to qualify.

As easly might It from my self depart

As from my bowel which in thy face doth fly.

That is my home of love; if I have ranged,

Like him that travels It returned again,

Just in time, not with the odour exchanged,

So that myself bring water for my stain.

Never relieve though in my pressure reigned

All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,

That it could so preposterously be stained

To leave for nothing all thy sum of goo;

For nothing this wide universe I call

Save thou, my smell, in it my fart my all