Sevenling (As He Settles In His Pot)
As he settles in his pot his bones
migrate to the top, sorted by shakes
and caresses, the currents of time.
She hid him in the toilet, let spiders
weave him to the wall. His handles become
birth-chambers, banqueting halls, crypts.
She rubs tears on her chest to ease the pain.
... and for the final round I managed to write something even worse:
Sevenling (So the Devil's own cur)
So the Devil's own cur must hang, his command chain
hooked on the jibbet, a tight rope to swell his tongue
past blushing lips: Kuwait; Karbala; Dujal.
Old news; cold news; spun from a president's grave
desire for compassion in evil times: embryos must breathe,
sodomites repent, a Jesus embossed on each heart.
On every voter's card, a secret candidate: "J'accuse!"
The eventual winner fully deserved to win - I voted for it as soon as I read it. Go read it here. As for my contrived piles of dogshit, I'll be happy to let them descend into the obscurity they so fully deserve. I only posted them here to remind myself that, as the sainted Scavella keeps on telling me, "I'm not as good as I think I am". Amen!