He came upon the challenge with his bat
(man-sized and as long and as thick as a sock)
prepared to swing into what would from that
point on create a legend of his cock:
It was called Come Guzzling Thunder Cunt,
as it thundered with the intensity
of a hundred diesel trucks. Also, the front
of it dropped no dribble, this monstrosity.
It was a vacuum. Not the kind you buy
but the kind created when high mass stars
create more gravity than their body
can support and they implode, their scars
above us, hovering with zero shape:
That’s how hard it sucked and made raisins from his grapes.
OK, I've got a confession to make. Most of the time, your Poetry Vending Machinists are cheating. Sure, there might be some conscious rhythm to your little improv poem. Perhaps even some legit and uncheesy rhyming. But if you get specific with form, most of us are going to break out in a cold sweat.
Which is why I am raising my glass to Jesse Jay Ross right now. This was written by him on the first day of the Fringe, for a handful of giggly drama club nerd-lookin' kids who not only gave us this title, but challenged us to do it as a friggin' SONNET.
Jesse, you are way too good for the Vending Machine, and I hope that I am always able to fool you into participating.