Iambic prose aerobic.



A question of possession or who inhabits who, does O'Bloat need to exorcise or is it Namazu?

 With bubbles from deep, up slowly I creep

from the rubbles and weeds where I sleep

with abusive aromas

conducive to comas

and prose at your nose 'til you weep.


 You can B.O'.B. like a buoy and weave in the wind

as I lob lines of hooey and leave the safeties unpinned.

A confetti kablooey!!! and with my fish bowl rim chinned,

some bubble letting and my screwy, green grin as though destined.


 My vision's obtuse, I grin puce through chartreuse, I've these barbels for finding refuse.

As Namazu, I'm loose, in this prose we produce to remain without name and recluse.

One may well deduce abuse of moon juice or the screws that flew loose from our snoot and caboose,

as we choose to adduce, in gruesome, blue use, skewed views I've abduced from Zarathustra and Suess! 





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