ODOROUS POETRY
Russell Hoisington
************************************************************
This is an erotic fantasy. The characters and the situation are
purely imaginary, and this story is *NOT* intended to be a guide
for actual behavior. Any similarities between this story and
actual people, or between this story and actual events that you
should be ashamed of, are purely coincidental. If it is illegal
for you to access and read erotic fiction, or if you don't like
sex stories, then stop now.
This story is copyright 2005 by Russell Hoisington. You may post
freely to non-commercial (free) sites, or in the "free" area of
commercial sites as long as you do not remove the author
information or make any changes to this story. This does *not*
mean that it is in the public domain, nor does it mean that I
give permission for you to use it in spam advertising. I reserve
the right to determine what is "spam advertising" by *my*
definition, not yours or anyone else's.
Thank you for your consideration.
************************************************************
This was originally written as a post to the alt.sex.stories.d
newsgroup, affectionately known those of us who hang out there as
the virtual watering hole, "La Taverna."
************************************************************
Hi!
It's me again.
Yeah, I know that Brother cmsix, at the behest of many of you
(and no doubt against his will), has been leading a prayer group
down at the Mount Blojo Penecostal Church, fervently beseeching
my failure to return. Unfortunately, God's answer sometimes is,
"Fuck off!" so, let's get down to business.
I saw Bradley Stoke and Uther being accused of writing poetry the
other day. And Oosh, among other excellent writers of the female
persuasion, has posted some charming poetry. Well, you know how
I can scarcely ignore the ideas of the good writers when they are
on public display and ripe for ripping off and....
Um, I mean, you know how I like to stroll in comfort along the
paths others have cut through the jungle before me. (I hope that
was vague enough).
I mentioned to CJ, my Muse, that I might give poetry writing a
hand myownself. The following is the result of her suggestion as
she rushed out the door to have her fingernails pierced and her
clit polished. Or whatever it was she said.
I've been wondering what to call these collected verses. I was
thinking about it in the Porcelain Library a few hours after that
big Mexican lunch I ate. In an eerie moment I was reminded of
that time in 'fifty-seven when Uncle Henry, back when he was
married to Aunt Carla--the one who shot him--finally won BIG time
at the West Memphis Dog Track. Uncle Henry stopped off at the
Cotton Club in Trumann on the way home and got himself tighter
than Cousin Edith when we were six years old. How he made it the
rest of the way home without killing himself or anyone else is
unknown, but it was declared An Official Miracle by the Catholic
Church. And Uncle Henry's side of the family are all Baptists!
The next morning......
Um, why are you looking at me like that?
Look, we associate with them _only_ at family reunions. Okay?
Anyway, the next morning Aunt Carla woke up to a horrific smell
that had singed not only her nose hair but her ear hair as well.
And if you knew "Aunt Collie" and her ears.... Well, to make a
long story short, Aunt Carla finally discovered that Uncle Henry
had taken a dump in a piece of the antique pottery she collected.
In honor of that occasion I call this collection:
ODOR IN A GRECIAN URN
Russell Hoisington
-----0-----
Stinkle crinkle little fart.
O how redolent thou art.
Piffing out twixt Mary's thighs,
You'd lachrymate a dead man's eyes.
(Hey! That was pretty darn good!)
-----0-----
Yessir, Yassir Arafat.
You wore a dishrag for a hat.
It stank like you upon your head,
But you smell better now you're dead.
(Hmmm. I think CJ was onto something!)
-----0-----
A reeking man, that Billy Banks,
Lives his life in septic tanks.
No sex life, save for daily wanks,
For which all women give their thanks.
(I'm definitely on a streak here!)
-----0-----
Fairy Harry, QUITE conTRARy,
NEVER taketh a thower.
It maketh you THICK, the way hith dick
Growth THTINKIER by th' hour.
(I may delete that one before I post this.)
-----0-----
Though twenty years upon The Pill,
Geneva Sykes' a virgin still.
You'd think her twat was full of swill.
It never met Miss Massengill.
(Y'know, I'll bet I could sell these...)
-----0-----
There once was a Driver named Chess,
[_What_ are you doing?]
_YIKE!_ CJ! <gasp> You startled me. Um, your fingernails
aren't pierced.
[_What_ the hell are you...? Oh, never mind, I really don't want
to know. I asked you, what are you doing?]
I'm taking your advice. You know, when you said I should post
some odorous poetry.
[_YOU ASSHOLE!_ I specifically told you _not_ to post any of
your _odious_ poetry! You hit that delete key right now!]
But... But... But, Museypoo! I've been working on this for the
past three hours!
[Who cares? You hit that "Delete" button right now. Right
_NOW_, I said!]
Aw, pifflepoot. <sigh> Okay.
[_NO, NOT *THAT* BUTTON, YOU ASSHOLE! THAT'S "SEN_
************************************************************
Copyright Russell Hoisington 2005
************************************************************
We who write the stories you like to read have received, and
continue to receive, a great amount of support from the people
here at ASSTR (The Alt Sex Stories Text Repository). ASSTR's
major service is the archiving of our stories to make them
available to you, the readers. ASSTR is a non-profit
organization and is staffed by volunteers. This operation is
costly, and the only source of operating income is from
donations. I ask that you consider donating if you have enjoyed
my stories. Your donation will help insure they remain available
for all to read at no cost. You can learn more about donating at
this link:
https://www.asstr-mirror.org/donations.html