Book I: CHENEY Qu@driDr@gon
CHENEY Qu@driDr@gon
spits 4 sizzling bullets,
splitting his unravelling
reptilian-tongue in 4:
1: pricks Dubya’s 1-track brain,
2: sprays the Ov@l Office w/vicious juice,
3: invokes the CHENEY, Bush & Rove Trinity
4: bewails his VP-apotheosis’ limitation
to quadrennial surges of dr@conic-power.
Hidden in a quasi-virtual cavern,
a dr@gon-slayer matches those 4-tongues
up/w a Shick Qu@dr@, mantra-ing:
“Detongue the Qu@driDr@gon…”
unaware a 5-bladed Gillette Fusion
will take his tongue as well…
Book II: CHENEY De@thSt@lker
Simple Sanity barely escapes
crossing the border at night,
claiming war-refugee status,
pursued by de@thst@lker CHENEY
w/blood in his eye, dually-armed
w/over & under shotguns, loaded
w/depleted uranium shot & shells,
hot-spitting: “Kill whoever rises!”
(Only the media rise.) “Kill all
despicable, disloyal, media!”
Blood-countess* Coulter cracks:
“Stand-up, all of you, Clintons!”
“Stand up, war-Traitor Kerry!”
* Erzsébet Báthory (Aug. 7, 1560 - Aug. 21, 1614)
Book III: VPh@ro@h CHENEY
VPh@ro@h CHENEY
spits hot uremic acid on Harry Whittington:
“H@rd-assed SOB never needed a he@rt;
mine’s mostly met@l, what the fuck’s his ?”
Rove’s oily bedside-manner explodes:
“This is bad, really bad! It strikes at the
living-he@rt of the vice-presidency, Sir.”
Scooter cowers in stir, fearing the worst:
living entombment for his VPh@ro@h.
Dense Dubya just don’t ‘get it’…yet.
FOX News Alerts ramp up&uP&UP!
Book IV: D@rth CHENEY, Re@nim@tor
Hard-breathing D@rth CHENEY finally
confesses2 [{FOX-TV}] he shot Harry
on ‘the worst day’ of his own gasping life,
in media-suffering making Harry’s AOK
even tho his heart holds a shot, a pellet,
a beebee (shrinking daily); CHENEY
Re@nim@tor, raises an ‘aquaintance’.
2 media-beatification w/out even dying.
shattered quail awayback in TeX@s,
jest 2shot2walk, 2dead2talk tom-turkey,
buckets o' piss2 CHENEY Re@nim@tor.
BOOK V: CHENEY V@ledictor: forbidding media
This neo-pastiche consoled CHENEY during his hours of silence.
As virtuous men blast wildly away,
& whisper to shot soules, just goe,
Whilst some of their sad friends doe say,
Booze breath shows, but some say, no:
So let us hide & make no noise,
Neither beer, nor booze-breath prove,
'Twere prophanation of our boys
To tell the media we drew blood;
Making of news brings harmes & feares,
Media reckon what we did & meant,
Whilst ingesting just a few light beers,
Much lesser fare, is innocent.
Vice-presidential gunners who gun
(Whose soules are dry) must admit
Absence, because it doth remove
Media demons dementeing it.
We be by blood, so much refin'd
That we know well what this shit is,
Inter-assured of our fine mind,
N’er heads, chests, & hearts do misse.
Thy loyal soul therefore, which is one,
Though it must goe, endures not yet
Mere gun-breach, but an expansion,
Texas Sweet to very thinness beate.
If we be two, we are two so
As stiffe twin shotgunners are two,
Thine the fixt gun, makes no blow
Towards me, but waits for mine to blow.
And though I in the center sit,
Yet while another dog doth rome,
I leane, & bark-out after it,
& grow erect, as I come home.
Such must thou be to mee, who must
Like th'other fools, no more runne;
My firmness makes my circle just,
& makes me end, where I begunne.
BOOK VI: CHENEY oldWyom@n
translated from the oldWyom@n
CHENEY strode nobly upon his native soil
& unburdened his noble oldWyoman heart,
sorrow saturating his voice: “My Wyomen,
you knew my grandfather; you know me;
our blood descends from oldWyoman blood
& is in & upon me in these tribulous hours.”
(Standing ovation by his Wyobrothers.)
“Blood distinguishes us; it is distinguished
by certainty, service, loyalty, property & love
of the noble land of Wyoming we spring from.
Media-mongrels dare not pollute our blood.”
(Cascading cheers from his Wyobrothers.)
“Shall we ever cease to spill the mixed-blood
of a disloyal media-corpses? I ask you, now!”
(Blood-curdling No!s from his Wyobrothers.)
“On our native Wyoming soil we are supreme;
let no mixed-media dare to pollute our Wyorace.”
(Racial growls arise from his Wyobrothers.)
“Up in Big Sky (where I secretly abide) I live
the free life that oldWyoming only provides
to its sons of the blood of its Great Wyomen.”
(Cheers from the Sons of Great Wyomen.)
“Wyoman greatness flows thru & w/in us
whenever we rise to defend our Wyoblood;
as I did in TeXas, we all swear to now.”
(All rise to sing the Wyoman anthem:)
Great Sky, Great Land, Great People,
Arise & sing in our Great WyoHall!
Defy the dogs who’d us thrall
To mixed-media: corrupt, political.
Refrain: Wy-o-Men! Wy-o-Men!
BOOK VII: CHENEY: HunterP@stor
FROM: WH Office of Emergency Respeach
C@TEGORY: Dimunutional
LEVEL: {C@UTION}
BULLETIN: VP22FEB06.1.0
TOPIC: CHENEY TX quail-hunt (VPQHTX)
IM@GE: respoken as “hunters’-pastorate”
Bullet-points:
"shot" already respoken "pepper" & "beebees"
“victim’s heart" already respoken (heartless) "chest."
“victim” to be respoken "willing participant,
who is "happy to have participated"
“hunting” to be respoken “hunter-pastoring”
“hunters” to be respoken “companion-pastors”
“game” to be respoken “participating-paracletes”
Further emergency respeaks (as required.)
Book VIII: CHENEY F@mily-jeweler
CHENEY secretly lambastes Rove:
“Ball-less eunuch, you’ve exposed
the palimpsest of my daily-deeds!
@sshole-proctologist FitzGerald’s
saying my logs are my family-jewels;
how’d that nutless proctologist know?”
Rove sweats-out CHENEY’s rage as
beneath his Master, a strong-box holds
his family’s family jewels, nacreous
pearls of great price few may know:
super-heated swe@ty Powerballs,
distilling his Master’s fuehrerfuel:
hot jewels of his incendiary rage.
BOOK IX: CHENEY Tr@nscend@nt
CHENEY sheds his grey-sharkskin suit
for a mottled reptilian skin, shedding that
for a shimmering set of wet, folded wings.
Glittering with compounded-rage, his eyes
see beyond what's around & below us,
our pitiful confusion, briefly blinding us
to his magnificent neo-insectile vision:
exoskeletal transcendance of human folly.
weakness, indecision, incompetence. His
dry, buzzing, mandibular click confuses
his staff, used only to hot, bloody bursts
of wounded mammalian insults & rage;
fearing they cannot fully adapt quickly
enough to this neo-specific ascendancy;
some choose crickethood, others turn ant.
BOOK X: CHENEY P@r@aoid
Bolting-up&out of troubled sleep,
CHENEY visualizes a conspiracy
arrayed against him, its legions:
Colin Powell's dingy lieutenants,
Teddy Kennedy's pussy-hounds,
Hillary Clinton's bullydykes,
naked hoardes, hungrily advancing
upon his naked body, hungry for his
Wyomanly, noble, living flesh. In
anguish, CHENEY screams: "Save
me, Master of my Righteousness,
save me from such Viciousness,
such pitiless-bully teeth, grinning as
they attach my balls to stop-clocks
set to my hour of trial! Such horror!"
Mercifully, his vexed mind descends
again to subterranean, cold, oblivion,
sunk in the fitful sleep of the unjust.
BOOK XI: CHENEY W@tchm@ster
“Bring me Lincoln’s watch!” CHENEY
snarls at a cowering gofer in his cave;
(Lincoln’s watch is brought.) “Wind it!”
(Its loud ticking fills the cave with fear.)
“Set it to the hour of Lincoln’s death.”
(The gofer quickly sets it to 7:22 AM.)
“Bring me…my Dubya!” CHENEY,
in his cave, snarls at the terrified gofer.
(Dubya is duly admitted to the cave.)
“This is Lincoln’s watch, Dubya…”
smiles CHENEY, “Carry it well. It’s
set to his hour of greatest triumph.”
Dubya grins. “I’ll carry it for the rest
of my natural life, Sir.” CHENEY:
“See to it that you do, Dubya. Go!”
Dubya holds Lincoln's watch close,
its loud ticking filling him with joy
as he carries it onto Air Force One.
BOOK XII: CHENEY, Russi@n Rouletteer
CHENEY thumbs the shiny cylinder
of his silver-plated oldWyoman.44,
spang upside the head of a reporter
strapped into a shiny steel chair.
"Watch me clean your paper clock,
you treasonous S.O.B." he snarls,
spinning the shiny, clicking cylinder:
"I'm steel-jacked. I run this country
under EO 13292! No way I can lose.
Feeling lucky, punk? M@ke my d@y!"
CHENEY squeezes the trigger slowly.
(No report.) "G'dammit, yesterday,
it reported on first-pull!" CHENEY
spins the cylinder again, squeezes
the trigger slowly, hot4the report.
Continue to Volume Two of The Cheni@d.
Bill Costley serves on the Steering Committee of the San Francisco chapter of the National Writers Union.